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THE 


BRIDE  OF  FORT  EDWARD 


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THE 


BRIDE  OF  FORT  EDWARD, 


FOUNDED   ON 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED   BY   S.   COLMAN, 

NO.    Vm    A3T0R   HOUSE, 
BROADWAY. 

1839. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1839,  by 
S.  COLMAN, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tiio  United  States,  for  the 
*       Southern  Disirict  of  New- York. 


New -roHK: 

Printed  by  Scatcukrd  and  Adams, 

Wo.  38  Gold  Sueet 


PREFACE. 


\h^ 


I  AM  extremely  anxious  to  guard  against  any  mis- 
conception o^i\\Q  design  of  this  little  work.  I  there- 
fore take  the  liberty  of  apprising  the  reader  before- 
hand, that  it  Y'iioi  a  JP/m/T^t  was  not  irktended  for  the  ^ 
stage,  and  properly  isnot  capable  of  representation. 
I  have  chosen  the  form  of  the  Dialogue  as  best  ^ 
suited  to  my  purpose  in  presenting  anew  the  pas- 
sions and  events  of  a  day  long  buried  in  the  past,  but 
it  is  the  dialogue  in  scenes  arranged  simply  with 
reference  to  the  impression^  of  the  Reader,  and 
wholly  unadapted  to  the  requirements  of  the  actual 
stage.  The  plan  here  chosen,  involves  throughout 
Lgie  repose^the  thou^[htuind  spntiment  of  Actual-life, 
instead  of  theJhurried_acUoii3^  the  crcwded  plot,  the 
theatrical  elevation  which  the  Stage  necessarily  de- 
mands  of  the  pure  Drama.,.  I  have  only  to  ask  that 
I  may  not  be  condemned  for  failing  to  fulfil  the  con- 
ditions of  a  species  of  writing  which  I  have  not  at- 
tempted. 

269468 


e^ 


VUl  PREFACE. 

The  story  involved  in  these  Dialogues  is  essentially 
connected  with  g^well-known  crisis  in  our  National 
History;  nay,  it  is  itself  a  portion  of  the  historic -re- 
cord, and  as  such,  even  with  many  of  its  most  trifling 
minutiae,  is  imbedded  in  our  earliest  recollections  ; 
p  but  it  is  rather  in  its  relation  to  the  abstract  truth  it 
\  jembodies^rr-^s  exhibiting  a  law  in  the  relation  of  the 
L.Jbuman  mind  to  its  Invisible  protector — the  apparent 
'-  sacrifice  of  the  individual  in  the  grand  movements  for 
the  rScc, ^it  is  iu  this  light,  rather  than  as  an  histo- 
rical exhibition,  that  I  venture  to  claim  for  it,  as  here 
presented,  the  indulgent  attention  of  my  readers. 

THE  AUTHOR. 

New-York,  July  7th,  1839. 


THE 

A  DEAMATIC  STORY. 


Scene.    Fort  Edward  and  its  vicinity^  on  the  Hudson^ 
near  Lake  George, 

PERSONS  INTRODUCED. 

British  and^ American  officers  and  soldiers. 
Indians  employed  in  the  British  service. 
Elliston — A  religious  missionary  residing  in  the  ad- 
jacent woods. 
George  Grey — A  young  American. 

Lady  Ackland — Wife  of  an  English  Officer. 

Margaret — Her  maid. 

Mrs.  Grey — The  widow  of  a   Clergyman^  residing 

near  Fort  Edward. 

Helen,  and  i       „      ,        , 

>  — Her  daughters. 
Annie,  5 

Janette — A  Canadian  servant. 

Children,  <^c. 

Time  included— from  the  afternoon  of  one  day  to  the 
close  of  the  following. 


Pag*. 

Part     I.  The  Cnrsis  and  its  Victim.     .    .  13 

II.  Love 35 

III.  Fate 64 

IV.  Fulfilment 86 

V.  Fulfilment 120 

VI.  Reconciliation. 149 


^mm  mmnmm  ®if  ifcdss  mm'wjstim.m. 


PART  FIRST. 


INDUCTION. 

DIALOGUE  I. 

Scene.  The  roadside  on  the  slope  of  a  wooded  hill  near 
Fort  Edward.  The  speakers^  two  young  soldiers, — 
Students  in  arms.    . 

1st  Student.  These  were  the  evenings  last  year,  when 
the  bell 
From  the  old  college  tower,  would  find  us  still 
-^^Under  the  shady  elms,  with  sauntering  step 
And  book  in  hand,  or  on  the  dark  grass  stretched, 
Or  lounging  on  the  fence,  with  skyward  gaze 
Amid  the  sunset  warble.    Ah  !  that  world, — 
That  world  we  lived  in  then — where  is  it  now  ? 
Like  earth  to  the  departed  dead,  methinks. 

2nd  Stud.  Yet  oftenest,  of  that  homeward  path  I  think, 
Amid  the  deepening  twilight  slowly  trod. 
And  I  can  hear  the  click  of  that  old  gate, 


14  THEBRIDEOF 

As  once  again,  amid  the  chirping  yard, 

I  see  the  summer  rooms,  open  and  dark, 

And  on  the  shady  step  the  sister  stands, 

Her  merry  welcome,  in  a  mock  reproach. 

Of  Love's  long  childhood  breathing.     Oh  this  year, 

This  year  of  blood  hath  made  me  old,  and  yet. 

Spite  of  my  manhood  now,  with  all  my  heart, 

I  could  lie  down  upon  this  grass  and  weep 

For  those  old  blessed  times,  the  times  of  peace  again. 

1st  Stud.  There  will  be  weeping,  Frank,  from  older 
eyes, 
Or  e'er  again  that  blessed  time  shall  come. 
Hearts  strong  and  glad  now,  must  be  broke  ere  then : 
Wild  tragedies,  that  for  the  days  to  come 
Shall  faery  pastime  make,  must  yet  ere  then 
Be  acted  here  ;  ay,  with  the  genuine  clasp 
Of  anguish,  and  fierce  stabs,  not  buried  in  silk  robes. 
But  in  hot  hearts,  and  sighs  from  wrung  souls'  depths. 
And  they  shall  walk  in  light  that  we  have  made. 
They  of  the  days  to  come,  and  sit  in  shadow  -^ 

Of  our  blood-reared  vines,  not  counting  the  wild  cost. 
Thus  'tis  :  among  glad  ages  many, — one — 
In  garlands  lies,  bleeding  and  bound.     Times^st, 
And  times  to  come,  on  ours,  as  on  an  altar — 


Have  laid  down  their  griefs,  and  unto  us 
Is  given  the  burthen  of  them  all. 

2nd  Stud.  And  yet, 

See  now,  how  pleasantly  the  sun  shines  there 


PORTEDWARD.  1$ 

Over  the  yellow  fields,  to  the  brown  fence 
Its  hour  of  golden  beauty — giving  still. 
And  but  for  that  faint  ringing  from  the  fort, 
That  comes  just  now  across  the  vale  to  us, 
And  this  small  band  of  soldiers  planted  here, 
I  could  think  this  was  peace,  so  calmly  there, 
The  afternoon  amid  the  valley  sleeps. 

1st  Stud.  Yet  in  the  bosom  of  this  gentle  time, 
The  crisis  of  an  age-Ion^  struggle  heaves. 

2nd  Stud.  Age-long  7 — Why,  this  land's  history  can 
scarce 
Be  told  in  ages,  yet. 

\st  Stud.  But  this  war's  can. 

In  that  small  isle  beyond  the  sea,  Francis, 
Ages,  ages  ago,  its  light  first  blazed. 
This  is  the  war.     Old,  foolish,  blind  prerogative. 
In  ermines  wrapped,  and  sitting  on  king's  thrones  ; 
Against  young  reason,  in  a  peasant's  robe 
His  king's  brow  hiding.  /For  the  infant  race  ,'  4rz  ^^^ 

Weaves  for  itself  the  chains  its  manhood  scorns,  '■  H  ^¥  ^ 

(When  time  hath  made  them  adamant,  alas ! — ) 
The  reverence  of  humanity,  that  gold 
Which  makes  power's  glittering  round,  ordained  of  God 
But  for  the  lovely  majesty  of  right, 
Unto  a  mad  usurper,  yielding,  all. 
Making  the  low  and  lawless  will  of  man 
Vicegerent  of  that  law  and  will  divine, 
Whose  image  only^  reason_hath,  on  earth. 


16  THEBRIDEOP 

This  is  the  struggle  : — here^  we'll  fight  it  out. 
'Twas  all  too  narrow  and  too  courtly  there  ; 
In  sight  of  that  old  pageantry  of  power 
We  were,  in  truth,  the  children  of  the  past, 
Scarce  knowing  our  own  time:  but  here,  we  stand 
In  nature's  palaces,  and  we  are  ?7iiew; — 
Here,  grandeur  hath  no  younger  dome  than  this  ; 
And  now,  the  strength  which  brought  us  o'er  the  deep, 
I^h  grown  to  manhood  with  its  nurture  here, — 
Now  that  theyTieap  on  us  abuses,  that 
Had  crimsoned  the  first  William's  cheek,  to  name, — 
We're  ready  now — for  our  last  grapple  with  blind  power. 

[E^^eunt, 


DIALOGUE  II. 

Scene.    The  same.  A  group  of  ragged  soldiers  in  con- 
fei'ence. 

1st  Soldier.  I  am  flesh  and  blood  myself,  as  well  as 
the  rest  of  you,  but  there  is  no  use  in  talking.  What 
the  devil  would  you  do?— You  may  talk  till  dooms-day, 
but  what's  to  hinder  us  from  serving  our  time  out  ? — 
and  that's  three  months  yet.  Ay,  there's  the  point. 
Show  me  that. 

2nd  Sol  Three  months  !    Ha,  thank  Heaven  mine  is 


FORTEDWARD.  17 

up  to-morrow ;  and,  I'll  tell  you  what,  boys,  before  the 
sun  goes  down  lo-morrow  night,  you  will  see  one  Jack 
Richards  trudging  home, — trudging  home,  Sirs  !  None  of 
your  bamboozling,  your  logic,  and  your  figures.  A  good 
piece  of  bread  and  butter  is  the  figure  for  me.  But  you 
should  hear  the  Colonel,  though,  as  the  time  draws 
nigh.  Lord !  you'd  think  I  was  the  General  at  least. 
Humph,  says  I. 

3d  Sol.  Ay,  ay, — feed  you  on  sugar-candy  till  they  get 
you  to  sign,  and  then  comes  the  old  shoes  and  mocca- 
sins.  

2nd  Sol.  And  that's  true  enough,  Ned.  I've  eaten  my- 
self, no  less  than  two  very  decent  pair  in  the  service.  I'U 
have  it  out  of  Congress  yet  though,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
don't.  None  of  your  figures  for  me  !  I  say,  boys,  1  am 
going  home. 

1st  Sol.  Well,  go  home,  and — can't  any  body  else 
breathe?  Why  don't  you  answer  me,  John? — What 
would  you  have  us  do  ? — 

4:th  Sol  Ask  Will  Wilson  there. 

ist  Sol.  Will?— Where  is  he? 

AthSol.  There  he  stands,  alongside  of  the  picket  there, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling,  and  looking  as  wise 
as  the  dragon.  Mind  you,  there's  always  something 
pinching  at  the  bottom  of  that  same  whistle,  though  its 
such  a  don't-care  sort  of  a  whistle  too.  Ask  WiD,  he'll 
tell  you. 

2* 


18  THEBRIDEOF 

3d  Sol..  Ay,  Will  has  been  to  the  new  quarters  to-day. 
See,  he's  coming  this  way. 

5th  Sol.  And  he  saw  Striker  there,  Iresh  from  the  Jer- 
seys, come  up  along  with  that  new  General  there,  yester- 
day. 

3d  Sol  General  Arnold? 

5th  Sol.  Ay,  ay.  General  Arnold  it  is. 

&h  SoL  {^Advancing.]     I  say,  boys 

4th  Sol.  What's  the  matter.  Will  ? 

Qth  Sol.  Do  you  want  to  know  what  they  say  below  ? 

All,  Ay,  ay,  what's  the  news  ? 

6^^  Sol.  All  up  there,  Sirs.  A  gone  horse ! — and  he 
that  turns  his  coat  first,  is  the  best  fellow. 

4th  Sol.  No  1 

6th  Sol.  And  shall  I  tell  you  what  else  they  say  t 

4th  Sol.  Ay. 

6th  Sol.  ShaU  I? 

All,  Ay,  ay.    What  is  it? 

6/^  Sol.  That  we  are  a  cowardly,  sneaking,  good-for- 
nothing  pack  of  poltroons,  here  in  the  north.  There's 
for  you  !  There's  what  you  get  for  your  pains.  Sirs. 
And  for  the  rest,  General  Schuyler  is  to  be  disgraced,  and 

old  Gates  is  to  be  set  over  us  again,  and no  matter  for 

the  rest.    See  here,  boys.  Any  body  coming?  See  here. 


FORT     EDWARD.  19 

3d  Sol.  What  has  he  got  there  ? 

2nd  Sol.  The  Proclamation  !  The  Proclamation  ! 
Will  you  be  good  enough  to  let  me  see  if  there  is 
not  a  picture  there  somewhere,  with  an  Indian  and  a 
tomahawk  1 

6th  Sol.  Now,  Sirs,  he  that  wants  a  new  coat,  and  a 
pocket  full  of  money 

3cZ  Sol.  That's  me  fast  enough. 

2nd.  Sol.  If  he  had  mentioned  a  shirt-sleeve  now,  or  a 
rim  to  an  old  hat 

^th  Sol.  Or  a  bit  of  a  crown,  or  so. 

6th  Sol.  He  that  wants  a  new  coat get  off  from  my 

toes,  you  scoundrel.  . 

All.  Let's  see.    Let's  see.    Read — read. 

7th  Sol.  (Spouting.)  "And  he  that  don't  want  his 
house  burned  over  his  head,  and  his  wife  and  children, 
or  his  mother  and  sisters,  as  the  case  may  be,  butchered 
or  eaten  alive  before  his  eyes " 

3d  Sol.  Heavens  and  earth !  It  'ant  so  though,  Wil- 
son, is  it  ? 

7th  Sol.  "  Is  required  to  present  himself  at  the  said  vil- 
lage of  Skeensborough,  on  or  before  the  20th  day  of  August 
next.  Boo — boo — boo — Who  but  I.  Given  under  my 
hand." — If  it  is  not  it — it  is  something  very  Hke  it,  I  can 
tell  you,  Sirs.  I  say,  boys,  the  old  rogue  wants  his  neck 
wrung  for  insulting  honest  soldiers  in  that  fashion  ;  and 
I  say  that  you — for  shame.  Will  Willson. 


20  THEBRIDEOF 

4.thSol.  Hush!— the  Colonel! Hush! 

2nd  Sol.  And  who  is  that  proud-looking  fellow,  by  his 
sidel 

4:th  Sol  Hush !  General  Arnold.    He's  a  sharp  one 
— roll  it  up — roll  it  up. 

Qth  Sol.  Get  out, — you  are  rumpling  it  to  death. 
(  Two  American  officers  are  seen  close  at  hand^  in  a 

bend  of  the  ascending  road  j  the  soldiers  enter  the 

woods.) 


DIALOGUE  III. 

Scene.     The  same, 

1st  Officer.  I  cannot  conceal  it  from  you,  Sir  j  there  is 
but  one  feeling  about  it,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  and  I  had 
some  chances  in  my  brief  journey — 

2nd  Off.  Were  you  at  head-quarters? 

1st  Off.  Yes, — and  every  step  of  this  retreating  army 
only  makes  it  more  desperate.  I  never  knew  any  thing 
like  the  mad,  unreasonable  terror  this  army  inspires. 
Burgoyne  and  his  Indians  ! — "  Burgoyne  and  the  In- 
dians .'" — there  is  not  a  girl  on  the  banks  ot  the  Con- 
necticut that  does  not  expect  to  see  them  by  her  father's 
door  ere  day-break.  Colonel  Leslie,  what  were  those 
men  concealing  so  carefully  as  we  approached  just  now  1 
— Did  you  mark  them? 


FORT     EDWARD.  21 

2nd  Off.  Yes.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  was  the 
paper  we  were  speaking  of. 

1st  Off.  Ay,  ay, — I  thought  as  much. 

2nd  Off.  General  Arnold,  I  am  surprised  you  should 
do  these  honest  men  the  injustice  to  suppose  that  such 
an  impudent,  flimsy,  bombastic  tirade  as  that  same  pro- 
clamation of  Burgoyne's,  should  have  a  feather's  weight 
with  any  mother's  son  of  them. 

Arnold.  A  feather's,  ay  a  feather's,  just  so;  but  when 
the  scales  are  turning,  a  feather  counts  too,  and  that  is 
the  predicament  just  now  of  more  minds  than  you  think 
for,  Colonel  Leslie.  A  pretty  dark  horizon  around  us  just 
now.  Sir,— another  regiment  goes  oflf  to-morrow,  I  hear. 
Hey? 

Leslie.  Why,  no.    At  least  we  hope  not.    We  think 

we  shall  be  able  to  keep  them  yet,  unless — that  paper 

might  work  some  mischief  with  them  perhaps,  and  it 

would  be  rather  a  fatal  affair  too,  I  mean  in  the  way  of 

•  example. — These_Qxeea  Mountain  Boys 

Arnold.  Colonel  Leslie,  Colonel  Leslie,  this  army  is 
melting  away  like  a  snow-wreath.  There's  no  denying 
it.  Your  General  misses  it.  The  news  of  one  brave 
battle  would  send  the  good  blood  to  the  fingers'  ends 
from  ten  thousand  chilled  hearts ;  no  matter  how  fearful 
the  odds  ;  the  better,  the  better,— no  matter  how  large 
the  loss ; — for  every  slain  soldier,  a  hundred  better  would 
stand  on  the  field ; 

Leslie.  But  then 


•«2  THEBHiDEor 

Arnold.  By  all  that's  holy,  Sir,  if  I  were  head  here, 
the  red  blood  should  smoke  on  this  grass  ere  to-morrow's 
sunset.  I  would  have  battle  here,  though  none  but  the 
birds  of  the  air  were  left  to  carry 'the  tale  to  the  nation. 
I  tell  you,  Colonel  Leslie,  a  war,  whose  resources  are 
only  in  the  popular  feeling,  as  now,  and  for  months  to 
come,  this  war's  must  be  ;  a  war,  at  least,  which  depends 
wholly  upon  the  unselfishness  of  a  people,  as  this  war 
does,  can  be  kept  alive  by  excitement  only*  It  was 
wonderful  enough  indeed,  to  behold  a  whole  people,  the 
low  and  comfort-loving  too,  in  whose  narrow  lives  that 
little  world  which  the  sense  builds  round  us,  takes  such 
space,  forsaking  the  tangible  good  of  their  merry  firesides, 
for  rags  and  wretchedness", — poverty  that  the  thought  of 
the  citizen  beggar  cannot  reach, — the  supperless  night 
on  the  frozen  field  ;  with  the  news  perchance  of  a  home 
in  ashes,  or  a  murdered  household,  and,  last  of  all,  on  some 
dismal  day,  the  edge  of  the  sword  or  the  sharp  bullet 
ending  all; — and  all  in  defence  of— what  ? — an  idea — an 
abstraction, — a  thought : — I  say  this  was  wonderful 
enough,  even  in  the  glow  of  the  first  excitement.  But 
now  that  the  Jersey  winter  is  fresh  in  men's  memories, 
and  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill  are  forgotten,  and  all 
have  found  leisure  and  learning  to  count  the  cost  j  it 
were  expecting  miracles  indeed,  to  believe  that  this  army 
could  hold  together  with  a  policy  like  this.  Every  step 
of  this  retreat,  I  say  again,  treads  out  some  lingering 
spark  of  enthusiasm.  Own  it  yourself.  Is  not  this 
army  dropping   oQ  by   hundreds,    and  desertion    too, 


P  0  R  T    E  D  W  A  R  D  .  23 

increasing  every  hour,  thinning  your  own  ranks  and 
swelling  your  foes  ? — and  that,  too,  at  a  crisis — Colonel 
Leslie,  retreat  a  little  further,  some  fifty  miles  further  j 
let  Burgoyne  once  set  foot  in  Albany,  and  the  business 
is  done, — we  may  roll  up  our  pretty  declaration  as  fast 
as  we  please,  and  go  home  in  peace. 

Leslie.  General  Arnold,  I  have  heard  you  to  the 
end,  though  you  have  spoken  insultingly  of  councils  in 
which  I  have  had  my  share.  Will  you  look  at  this  little 
clause  in  this  paper.  Sir.  The  excitement  you  speak  of 
will  come  ere  long,  and  that  at  a  rate  less  ruinous  than 
this  whole  army's  loss.  There's  a  line — there's  aline. 
Sir,  that  will  make  null  and  void,  very  soon,  if  not  on 
the  instant,  all  the  evil  of  these  golden  promises. 
There'll  be  excitement  enough  ere  long;  but  better  blood 
than  that  shed  in  battle  fields  must  flow  to  waken  it. 

Arnold.  I  hardly  understand  you.  Sir.  Is  it  this  threat 
you  point  at  ? 

Leslie.  Can't  you  see  ? — They  have  let  loose  these 
hell-hounds  upon  us,  and  butchery  must  be  sent  into  our 
soft  and  innocent  homes ; — beings  that  we  have  sheltered 
from  the  air  of  heaven,  brows  that  have  grown  pale  at 
the  breath  of  an  ungentle  word,  must  meet  the  red  knife 
of  the  Indian  now.     Oh  God,  this  is  war ! 

Arnold.  I  understand  you,  Colonel  Leslie.  There 
was  a  crisis  like  this  in  New  Jersey  last  winter,  I  know, 
when  our  people  were  flocking  to  the  royal  standard,  as 


24  THEBRIDEOP 

they  are  now,  and  a  few  fiendish  outrages  on  the  part  of 
the  foe  changed  the  whole  current  in  our  favor.  It  may 
be  so  now,  but  meanwhile — 

Leslie.  Meanwhile,  this  army  is  the  hope  of  the 
nation,  and  must  be  preserved.  We  are  wronged,  Sir. 
Have  we  not  done  all  that  men  could  do?  What  were 
twenty  pitched  battles  to  such  an  enemy,  with  a  force 
like  ours,  compared  with  the  harm  we  have  done  them  7 
Have  we  not  kept  them  loitering  here  among  these  hills, 
wasting  the  strength  that  was  meant  to  tell  in  the  qui- 
vering fibres  of  men,  on  senseless  trees  ancT  stones, 
paralyzing  them  with  famine,  wearying  them  with  un- 
exciting, inglorious  toil,  until,  divided  and  dispirited,  at 
last  we  can  measure  our  power  with  theirs,  and  fight, 
not  in  vain  ?  Why,  even  now  the  division  is  planning 
there,  which  will  bring  them  to  our  feet.  And  what  to 
us,  Sir,  were  the  hazards  of  one  bloody  encounter,  to 
the  pitiful  details  of  this  unhonored  warfare  ? — We  are 
wronged — we  are  wronged.  Sir. 

Arnold.  There  is  some  policy  in  the  plan  you  speak 
of, — certainly,  there  is  excellent  policy  in  it  if  one  had 
the  patience  to  follow  it  out ;  but  then  you  can't  make 
Congress  see  it,  or  the  people  either ;  and  so,  after  all, 
your  General  is  superseded.  Well,  well,  at  all  events  he 
must  abandon  this  policy  now, — it's  the  only  chance  left 
for  him. 

Leslie.  Whyj  howso? 


P  0  R  T     E  D  W  A  R  D  .  25 

Arnold.  Or  else,  don't  you  see? — just  at  the  point 
where  the  glory  appears,  this  eastern  hero  steps  in, 
and  receives  it  all;  and  the  laurels  which  he  has  been 
rearing  so  long,  blow  just  in  time  to  drop  on  the  brow  of 
his  rival. 

Leslie.  General  Arnold, — excuse  me,  Sir — you  do 
not  understand  the  man  of  whom  you  speak.  There 
is  a  substance  in  the  glory  he  aims  at,  to  which, 
all  that  you  call  by  the  name  is  as  the  mere  shell 
and  outermost  rind.  Good  Heavens !  Do  you  think 
that,  for  the  sake  of  his  own  individual  fame,  the 
man  would  risk  the  fate  of  this  great  enterprize  ? — What 
a  mere  fool's  bauble,  what  an  empty  shell  of  honor, 
would  that  be.     If  I  thought  he  would — 

Arnold.  It  might  be  well  for  you  to  lower  your  voice 
a  little.  Sir ;  the  gentleman  of  whom  you  are  speaking  is 
just  at  hand. 

\_Other  officers  are  seen  emerging  from  the  woods.'] 

3d  Off.  Yes,  if  this  rumor  holds,  Lieutenant  Van 
Vechten,  your  post  is  likely  to  become  one  of  more  honor 
than  safety.  Gentlemen — Ha  ! — General  Arnold !  You 
are  heartily  welcome; — I  have  been  seeking  you,  Sir. 
If  this  news  is  any  thing,  the  movement  that  was  plan- 
ned for  Wednesday,  we  must  anticipate  somewhat. 

Leslie.  News  from  the  enemy,  General  1 
Gen.  Schuyler.  Stay — those  scouts  must  be  coming 
3 


26  THEBRIDEOF 

in,  Van  Vechten.  Why,  we  can  scarce  call  it  news  yet,  I 
suppose ;  but  if  this  countryman's  tale  is  true,  Burgoyne 
himself,  with  his  main  corps,  is  encamping  at  this  moment 
at  the  Mills,  scarce  three  miles  above  us. 

Arnold.  Ay,  and  good  news  too. 

Leslie.  But  that  cannot  be,  Sir — Alaska — 

Gen.  Schuyler.  Alaska  has  broken  faith  with  us  if  it  is, 
and  the  army  have  avoided  the  delay  we  had  planned 
for  them. — That  may  be. — This  man  overheard  their 
scouts  in  the  woods  just  below  us  here. 

Arnold.  And  if  it  is, — do  you  talk  of  retreat.  General 
Schuyler?  In  your  power  now  it  lies,  with  one  hour's 
work  perchance,  to  make  those  lying  enemies  of  yours 
in  Congress  eat  the  dust,  to  clear  for  ever  your  blackened 
fame.  Why,  Heaven  itself  is  interfering  to  do  you  right, 
and  throwing  honor  in  your  way  as  it  were !  Do  you  talk 
of  retreat,  Sir,  now  ? 

Gen.  Schuyler.  Heaven  has  other  work  on  hand  just 
now,  than  righting  thewrongs  of  such  heroes  as  you  and  I, 
Sir.  Colonel  Arnold — I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir,  Congress 
has  done  you  justice  at  last  I  see, — General  Arnold,  you 
are  right  as  to  the  consequence,  yet,  for  all  that,  if  this 
news  is  true,  I  must  order  the  retreat.  My  reputation 
I'll  trust  in  God's  hands.  My  honor  is  in  my  own  keep- 
ing. 

[Exeunt  Schuyler ^  Leslie^  and  Van  Vechten. 


PORTEDWARD.  27 

Arnold.  There's  a  smoke  from  that  chimney ;  are 
those  houses  inhabited,  my  boy  1 

Boy.  Part  of  them,  Sir.  Some  of  our  people  wentoS 
to-day.  That  white  house  by  the  orchard — the  old  par- 
sonage there  ?  Ay,  there  are  ladies  there  Sir,  but  I  heard 
Colonel  Leslie  saying  this  morning  'twas  a  sin  and  a 
shame  for  them  to  stay  another  hour. 

Arnold.  Ay,  Ay.  I  fancied  the  Colonel  was  not  deal- 
ing in  abstractions  just  now.  ^Exeunt. 


DIALOGUE  IV. 


[Scene.  A  room  in  the  Parsonage^ — an  old-fashioned 
summer  parlor. — On  the  side  a  door  and  windows 
opening  into  an  orchard,  in  front,  a  yard  filled  with 
shade  trees.  The  view  beyond  bounded  by  a  hill 
partly  wooded.  A  young  girl,  in  the  picturesque 
costume  of  the  time,  lies  sleeping  on  the  antique  sofa. 
Annie  sits  by  a  table,  covered  with  coarse  needle- 
work, humming  snatches  of  songs  as  she  works. 


23  THEBRIDEOP 

Annie,  (singijig.) 
Soft  peace  spreads  her  wings  andjlies  weeping  away. 
Soft  peace  spreads  her  wings  andfiies  weeping  away, 
Andjlies  weeping  away. 

The  red  cloud  of  war  o'er  our  forest  is  scowling, 
Soft  peace  spreads  her  win  gs  andfiies  weeping  away. 

Come  hlowthe^shriUhugl^^  dogs  are  howl- 

*'"^»  ... 
'Already  they  eagerly  snuff  out  their  prey — 

The  red  cloud  ofxcdr — the  redTcloud  of  war — 
Yes,  let  me  see  dow, — with  a  little  plotting  this  might 
make  two — two,  at  least — and  then — 

The  red  cloud  of  war  o'er  our  for  est  is  scowHng, 
Soft  peace  spreads  her  wings  andjlies  weeping  away. 

71ie  infants  affrighted  cling  close  to  their  mothers, 
The  youths  grasp  their  swords,  and  for  combat  pre- 
pare ; 

While  beauty  weeps  fathers,  and  lovers,  and  brothers. 
Who  are  gone  to  defend — 

— Alas !  what  a  golden,  delicious  afternoon  is  blowing 
without  there,  wasting  for  ever  ;  and  never  a  glimpse  of 
it.  Delicate  work  this  !  Here's  a  needle  might  serve  for 
a  genuine  stiletto  !  No  matter, — it  is  the  cause, — it  is 
the  cause  that  makes,  as  my  mother  says,  each  stitch  in 
this  clumsy  fabric  a  grander  thing  than  the  flashing  of 
the  bravest  lance  that  brave  knight  ever  won. 
(  Singing)  The  broolcs  are  talking  in  the  dell^ 
Tul  la  lul,  tul  la  lul. 


FORT     EDWARD.  29 

The  brooks  are  talking  low,  and  sweet, 
Under  the  boughs  where  th^  arches  meet  ; 
Come  to  the  dell,  come  to  the  dell, 
Oh  come,  come. 

The  birds  are  singing  in  the  dell, 
Wee  wee  whoo,  vjee  wee  whoo  ; 
The  birds  are  singing  wild  and  free, 
In  every  bough  of  the  forest  tree, 
Come  to  the  dell,  come  to  the  dell, 
Oh  come,  come. 

And  there  the  idle  breezes  lie, 
Whispering,  whispering, 
Whispering  with  the  laughing  leaves. 
And  nothing  says  each  idle  breeze, 
But  come,  come,  come^  O  lady  come^ 
Come  to  th''  dell. 

[^Mrs.  Grey  enters  from  V3ithout.'\ 
Mrs.  G.  Do  not  sing,  Annie. 

Annie.  Crying  would  better  befit  the  times,  I  know, — 
Dear  mother,  what  is  this  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Hush, — asleep— is  she  ? 

Annie.  This  hour,  and  quiet  as  an  infant.  Need 
enough  there  was  of  it  too.  See,  what  a  perfect  damask 
mother ! 

Mrs.  G.  Draw  the  curtain  on  that  sunshine  there. 

This  sleep  has  flushed  her.    Ay,  a  painter  might  have 

dropped  that  gol^n  hair, — yet  this  delicate  beauty  is  but 

the  martyr's  wreath  now,  with  its  fine  nerve    and 

'i-         3* 


30  THEERIDEOF 

shrinking  helplessness.    No,  Annie  ;  put  away  your  hat, 
my  love, — you  cannot  go  to  the  lodge  to-night. 

Annie.  Mother? 

Mrs.  G.  You  cannot  go  to  the  glen  to-night.  This  is 
no  time  for  idle  pleasure,  God  knows. 

Annie.  Why,  you  have  been  weeping  in  earnest,  and 
your  cheek  is  pale. — And  now  I  know  where  that  sad 
appointment  led  you.  Is  it  over  1  That  it  should  be  in 
our  humanity  to  bear,  what  in  our  ease  we  cannot,  cannot 
think  of! 

Mrs.  G.  Harder  things  for  humanity  are  there  than 
bodily  anguish,  sharp  though  it  be.  It  was  not  the  boy, — 
the  mother's  anguish,  I  wept  for,  Annie. 

Annie.  Poor  Endross !  And  he  wuU  go,  to  his  dymg 
day,  a  crippled  thing.  But  yesterday  I  saw  him  spring- 
ing by  so  proudly  !    And  the  mother 

Mrs.  G.  "  Words^  words^''  she  answered  sternly 
when  I  tried  to  comfort  her  ;  "  ay,  words  are  easy. 
Wait  till  you  see  your  ownchild^s  blood.  Wait  till  you 
stand  by  and  see  his  young  limbs  hewn  away,  and  the 
groans  come  thicker  and  thicker  that  you  cannot  soothe  ; 
and  then  let  them  prate  to  you  of  the  good  cause." 
Bitter  words  !  God  knows  what  is  in  store  for  us  ; — all 
day  this  strange  dread  has  clung  to  me. 

Annie.  Dear  mother,  is  not  this  th#  superstitioij  you 
were  wont  to  chide  ? 


PORT     EDWARD.  31 

Mrs.  G.  Ay,  ay,  we  should  have  been  in  Albany  ere 
this.  In  these  wild  times,  Annie,  every  chance-blown 
straw  that  points  at  evil,  is  likely  to  prove  a  faithful  in- 
dex; and  if  it  serve  to  nerve  the  heart  for  it,  we  may  call 
it  heaven-sent  indeed.  Annie, — hear  me  calmly,  my 
child, — the  enemy,  so  at  least  goes  the  rumor,  are  nearer 
than  we  counted  on  this  morning,  and — hush,  not  a  word. 

Annie.  She  is  but  dreaming.  Just  so  she  murmured 
in  her  sleep  last  night ;  twice  she  waked  me  with  the 
saddest  cry,  and  after  that  she  sat  all  night  by  the  win- 
dow in  her  dressiug-gown,  I  could  not  persuade  her  to 
sleep  again.    Tell  me,  mother,  you  say  and — and  what? 

Mrs.  G.  I  cannot  think  it  true,  'lis  rumored  though, 
that  these  savage  neighbors  of  ours  have  joined  the 
enemy. 

Annie.  No!  no!  Has  Alaska  turned  against  us? 
Why,  it  was  but  yesterday  I  saw  him  with  Leslie  in 
yonder  field.  'Tis  false  ;  it  must  be.  Surely  he  could 
not  harm  us. 

Mrs.  G.  And  false,  I  trust  it  is.  At  least  till  it  is 
proved  otherwise,  Helen  must  not  hear  of  it. 

Annie.  And  why  ? 

Mrs.  Grey.  She  needs  no  caution,  and  it  were  useless 
to  add  to  the  idle  fear  with  which  she  regards  them  all, 
already.  Some  dark  fancy  possesses  her  to-day ;  I  have 
marked  it  myself. 

Annie.  It  is  just  two  years  to-morrow,  mother,  sine 


32  THEBEIDEOP 

Helen's  wedding  day,  or  rather,  that  sad  day  that  should 
have  seen  her  bridal ;  and  it  cannot  be  that  she  has  quite 
forgotten  Everard  Maitland.    Alas,  he  seemed  so  noble  ! 

Mrs.  G.  Hush !  Never  name  him.  Your  sister  is 
too  high-hearted  to  waste  a  thought  on  him.  Tory  ! 
Helen  is  no  love-lorn  damsel,  child,  to  pine  for  an  un- 
worthy love.  See  the  rose  on  that  round  cheek, — it 
might  teach  that  same  haughty  loyalist,  could  he  see  her 
now,  what  kind  of  hearts  'tis  that  we  patriots  wear, 
whose  strength  they  think  to  trample.  Where  are  you 
going,  Annie  ? 

Annie.  Not  beyond  the  orchard-wall.  I  will  only 
stroll  down  the  path  here,  just  to  breathe  this  lovely  air 
a  little;  indeed,  there's  no  fear  of  my  going  further  now. 

\_Ea:it. 

Mrs.  G.  Did  I  say  right,  Helen  ?  It  cannot  be  feign- 
ed. Those  quick  smiles,  with  their  thousand  lovely 
meanings  ;  those  eyes,  whose  beams  lead  straight  to  the 
smiling  soul.  Principle  is  it  ?  There  is  no  principle  in 
this,  but  joy,  or  else  it  strikes  so  deep,  that  the  joy  grows 
up  from  it,  genuine,  not  feigned  ;  and  yet  I  have  found 
her  weeping  once  or  twice  of  late,  in  unexplained  agony. 
Helen  ! 

Helen.  Oh  mother  !  is  it  you  ?  Thank  Gad.  I 
thought 

Mrs.  G.  What  did  you  think?  What  moves  you 
thus  ? 


PORTED  WARD.  33 

Helen.  I  thought — 'tis  nothing.   This  is  very  strange. 

Mrs.  G.  Why  do  you  look  through  that  window  thus  ? 
There's  no  one  there !     What  is  it  that's  so  strange  ? 

Helen.  Is  it  to-morrow  that  we  go  ? 

Mrs.  G.  To  Albany  ?  Why,  no;  on  Thursday.  You 
are  bewildered,  Helen !  surely  you  could  not  have  for- 
gotten that. 

Helen.  I  wish  it  was  to-day.     I  do. 

Mrs.  G.  My  child,  yesterday,  when  the  question  was 
debated  here,  and  wishing  might  have  been  of  some 
avail,  'tis  true  you  did  not  say  much,  but  I  thought,  and 
so  we  all  did,  that  you  chose  to  stay. 

Helen.  Did  you?  Mother,  does  the  load  to  Albany 
wind  over  a  hill  like  that? 

Mrs.  G.  Like  what,  Helen  ? 

Helen.  Like  yonder  wooded  hill,  where  the  soldiers 
are  stationed  now  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Not  that  I  know  of?     Why  ? 

Helen.  Perhaps  we  may  cross  that  very  hill, — no — 
could  we  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Not  unless  we  should  turn  refugees,  my 
love;  an  event  of  which  there  is  little  danger  just  now,  I 
ihink.  That  road,  as  indeed  you  know  yourself,  leads 
out  directly  to  the  British  camp. 


3i 


THE     BRIDE      OF     FORT     EDWARD 


Helen.  Yes — yes — it  does.  I  know  it  does.  I  will 
not  yield  to  it.     'Tis  folly,  all. 

Mrs.  G,  You  talk  as  though  you  were  dreaming  still, 
my  child.  Put  on  your  hat,  and  go  into  the  garden  for 
a  little,  the  air  is  fresh  and  pleasant  now  ;  or  take  a  ramble 
through  the  orchard  if  you  will,  you  might  meet  Annie 
there, — no,  yon  she  comes,  and  well  too.  It's  quite 
time  that  I  were  gone  again.  I  wish  that  we  had  nothing 
worse  than  dreams  on  hand.  Helen,  I  must  talk  with 
you  about  these  fancies ;  you  must  not  thus  unnerve 
yourself  for  real  evil.  {^Exit. 

Helen.  It  were  impossible, — it  could  not  be! — how 
could  it  be  ?— Oh !  these  are  wild  times.  Unseen  powers 
are  crossing  their  meshes  here  around  us, — and,  what 
am  I  ? — Powers  ? — there's  but  one  Power,  and  that — 

"  He  careth  for  the  little  bird, 

Far  in  the  lone  wood's  depths,  and  though  dark  weapons 

And  keen  eyes  are  out,  it  falleth  not 

But  at  his  will.    :  lExit. 


PART  SECOND. 


ILCDWIE. 


DIALOGUE  I. 

Scene.  A  little  glen  in  the  woods  near  Fort  Edward. 
A  young  British  Officer  appears^  attended  by  a  sol- 
dier in  the  American  uniform  ;  the  latter  with  a  small 
sealed  pacquet  in  his  hand. 

Off.  Hist ! 

Sol.  Well,  so  I  did  j  but^ 

Off^.  Hist,  1  say  ! 

Sol.  A  squirrel  it  is,  Sir;  there  he  sits. 

Off.  By  keeping  this  path  you  avoid  the  picket  on 
the  hill.  It  will  bring  you  out  where  these  woods  skirt 
the  vale,  and  scarcely  a  hundred  rods  from  the  house 
itself. 


36  THEBRIDEOF 

[  Calling  without.'] 

Sol.  Captain  Andre — Sir. 

Of.  It  were  well  that  the  pacquet  should  fall  into  no 
other  hands.  With  a  little  caution  there  is  no  danger. 
It  will  be  twilight  ere  you  get  out  of  these  woods — 

Sol.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  ;  but  here  is  that  young 
Indian  guide  of  mine,  after  all,  above  there,  beckoning  me. 

Off.  Stay — you  will  come  back  to  the  camp  ere  mid- 
night ? 

Sol  Unless  some  of  these  quick-eyed  rebels  see  through 
my  disguise. 

Off.  Do  not  forget  the  lodge  as  you  return.  A  little 
hut  of  logs  just  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  but  Siganaw 
knows  it  well.  \^Exit  the  Soldier. 

(  T^e  call  in  the  thicket  above  is  repeated^  and  a7io- 
ther  young  officer  enters  the  glen.) 

2nd  Off.  Hillo,  Maitland !  These  woods  yield  fairies, 
— come  this  way. 

1st  Off.  For  God's,  sake,  Andre!  (motioning  silence.) 
Are  you  mad  ? 

Andre.  Well,  who  are  they  ? 

Mait.  Who?  Have  you  forgotten  that  we  are  on  the 
enemy's  ground  ?  Soldiers  from  the  fort,  no  doubt. 
They  have  crossed  that  opening  twice  since  we  stood 
here. 


FORT   EDWARD.  37 

Andre.  Well,  let  them  cross  twice  more.  I  would  run 
the  risk  of  a  year's  captivity,  at  least,  for  one  such  glimpse. 
Nay,  come,  she  will  he  gone. 

ikfaii.  Stay, — not  yet.     There,  again! 

Andre.  Such  a  villainous  scratching  as  I  got  in  that 
pass  just  now.  It  must  have  cost  the  rogues  an  infinite 
deal  of  pains  though.  A  regular,  handsome  sword-cut 
is  nothing  to  a  dozen  of  these  same  ragged  scratches, 
that  a  man  can't  swear  about.  After  all.  Captain  Mait- 
land,  these  cunning  Yankees  understand  the  game. 
They  will  keep  out  of  our  way,  slyly  enough,  until  we 
aie  starved,  and  scratched,  and  fretted  down  to  their  pro- 
portions, meanwhile  they  league  the  very  trees  against  us. 

Mait.  As  to  that,  we  have  made  some  leagues  our- 
selves, I  think,  quite  as  hard  to  be  defended.  Sir. 

Andre.  It  may  be  so.  Should  we  not  be  at  the  river 
by  this? 

Mait.  Sunset  was  the  time  appointed.  We  are  as 
safe  here,  till  then. 

Andre.  'Tis  a  Httle  temple  of  beauty  you  have  lighted 
on,  in  truth.  These  pretty  singers  overhead,  seem  to 
have  no  guess  at  our  hostile  errand.  Methinks  their 
peaceful  warble  makes  too  soft  a  welcome  for  such  war- 
like comers.  Hark !  [  Whistling.']  That's  American. 
One  might  win  bloodless  laurels  here.  Will  you  stand 
a  moment  just  as  you  are,  Maitland  j — 'tis  the  very  thing. 
There's  a  little  space  in  my  unfinished  picture,  and  with 
4 


38  THEBRIDEOF 

that  a  la  Kemble  mien,  you  were  a  fitting  mate  for  this 
young  Dian  here,  (taking  a  pencil  sketch  from  his  port- 
folio  j) — the  beauty-breathing,  ay,  beauty -breathing,  it's  no 
poetry ; — for  the  lonesome  little  glen  smiled  to  its  darkest 
nook  with  her  presence. 

Mait.  What  are  you  talking  of,  Andre  ?    Fairies  aacU- 
goddesses  ! — What  next  ? 

Andre.  I  am  glad  you  grow  a  little  curious  at  last. 
Why  I  say,  and  your  own  eyes  may  make  it  good  if  you 
will,  that  just  down  in  this  glen  below  here,  not  a  hun- 
dred rods  hence,  there  sits,  or  stands,  or  did  some  fifteen 
minutes  since,  some  creature  of  these  woods,  I  suppose 
it  is;  what  else  could  it  be?  Well,  well,  I'll  call  no 
names,  since  they  offend  you,  Sir ;  but  this  I'll  say,  a  young 
cheek  and  smiling  lip  it  had,  whate'er  it  was,  and 
round  and  snowy  arm,  and  dimpled  hand,  that  lay 
ungloved  on  her  sylvan  robe,  and  eyes — I  tell  you  plain- 
ly, they  lighted  all  the  glen. 

Mait.  Ha  ?    A  lady  ? — there  ?    Are  you  in  earnest  1 

0 

Andre.  A  lady,  well  you  would  call  her  so  perchance. 
Such  ladies  used  to  spring  from  the  fairy  nut-sheUs,  in  the 
old  time,  when  the  kings'  son  lacked  a  bride ;  and  if  this 
were  Windsor  forest  that  stretches  about  us  here,  I  might 
fancy,  perchance,  some  royal  one  had  wandered  out,  to 
cool  the  day's  glow  in  her  cheek,  and  nurse  her  love- 
dieam ;  but  here,  in  this  untrodden  wilderness,  unless 
your  ladies  here  spring  up  like  flowers,  or  drop  down  on 


FORTEDWARD.  39 

invisible  pinions  from  above,  how,  in  the  name  of  reason, 
came  she  here  ? 

Mait.  On  the^invisible  pinions  of  thine  own  lady- 
loving  fancy ;  none  otherwise,  trust  me. 

Andre.  Come,  come, — see  for  yourself.  On  my  word 
I  was  a  little  startled  though,  as  my  eye  first  lighted  on 
her,  suddenly,  in  that  lonesome  spot.  There  she  sat,  so 
bright  and  still,  like  some  creature  of  the  leaves  and 
waters,  such  as  the  old  Greeks  fabled,  that  my  first 
thought  was  to  worship  her ;  my  next — of  you,  but  I 
could  not  leave  the  spot  until  I  had  sketched  this ;  I 
stood  unseen,  within  a  yard  of  her ;  for  I  could  see  her 
soft  breath  stirring  the  while.  See,  the  scene  itself  was 
a  picture, — the  dark  glen,'the  lonesome  little  lodge,  on  the 
very  margin  of  the  fairy  lake — here  she  sat,  motionless 
as  marble ;  this  bunch  of  roses  had  dropped  from  her 
listless  hand,  and  you  would  have  thought  some  tragedy 
of  ancient  sorrow,  were  passing  before  her,  in  the  invisi- 
ble element,  with  such  a  fixed  and  lofty  sadness  she 
gazed  into  it.  But  of  course,  of  course,  it  is  nothing  to 
your  eye  ;  for  me,  it  wiU  serve  to  bring  the  whole  out  at 
my  leisure.  Indeed,  the  air,  I  think,  I  have  caught  a  little 
as  it  is. 

Mait.  A  little — you  may  say  it.    She  is  there,  is  she  7 
— sorrowful;  well,  what  is*t  to  me  ? 

Andre.  What  do  you  say?— There? — Yes,  I  left  her 
Jhere  at  least.    Come,  come.     I'll  show  you   one  will 


40 


THE     BRIDE     OF 


teach  you  to  unlearn  this  fixed  contempt  of  gentle  wo- 
man.   Come. 

Mait.  Let  go,  if  you  please,  Sir.  She  who  gave  me 
my  first  lesson  in  that  art,  is  scarcely  the  one  to  bid  me 
now  unlearn  it,  and  I  want  no  new  teaching  as  yet, 
thank  Heaven.  Will  you  come?  We  have  loitered 
here  long  enough,  I  think. 

Andre.  What,  under  the  blue  scope — what  the  devil 
ails  you,  Maitland  ? 

Mait.  Nothing,  nothing.  This  much  I'll  say  to  you, 
— that  lady  is  my  wife. 

Andre.  Nonsense! 

Mait.  There  lacked— three  days,  I  think  it  was,  three 
whole  days,  to  the  time  when  the  law  would  have  given 
her  that  name ;  but  for  all  that,  was  she  mine,  and  is ; 
Heaven  and  earth  cannot  undo  it. 

Andre.  Are  you  in  earnest?  Why,  are  we  not  here 
in  the  very  heart  of  a  most  savage  wilderness,  where 
never  foot  of  man  trod  before, — unless  you  call  these 
wild  red  creatures  men  ? 

Mait.  You  talk  wildly;  that  path,  followed  a  few 
rods  further,  would  have  brought  you  out  within  sight  of 
her  mother^s  door. 

Andre.  Ha !  you  have  been  in  this  wilderness  then, 
ere  now? 

Mait.  Have  you  forgotten  the  fortune  I  wasted  once 


PORT    EDWARD.  41 

on  a  summer's  seat,  some  few  miles  up,  on  the  lake  above? 
These  Yankees  did  me  the  grace  to  burn  it,  just  as  the 
war  broke  out. 

Andre.  Ay,  ay,  that  was  here.  I  had  forgotten  the 
whereabouts.  Those  blackened  ruins  we  passed  last 
evening,  perchance  ; — and  the  lady — my  wood-nymph, 
what  of  her? 

Mait.  Captain  Andre,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir.  That 
sketch  of  yours  reminded  me,  by  chance  perhaps,  of  one 
with  whom  some  painful  passages  of  my  life  are  linked  ; 
and  I  said,  in  my  haste,  what  were  better  left  unsaid. 
Do  me  the  favor  not  to  remind  me  that  I  have  done  so. 

Andre.  So — so  !  And  I  am  to  know  nothing  more  of 
thJLssmilingapparitipn ;  nay,  not  so  much  as  to  speak 
her  name?  Consider,  Maitland,  I  am  your  friend  it  is 
true ;  but,  prithee,  consider  the  human  in  me.  Give  her 
a  local  habitation,  or  at  least  a  name. 

Mait.  I  have  told  you  already  that  the  lady  you  speak 
of  resides  not  far  hence.  On  the  border  of  these  woods 
you  may  see  her  home.  I  may  point  it  out  to  you  se- 
curely, some  few  days  hence; — to-night,  unless  you 
would  find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  the  American  army, 
this  must  content  you. 

Andre.  A  wild  risk  for  a  creature  like  that !    Have 
these  Americans  no  safer  place  to  bestow  their  daughters 
than  the  fastnesses  of  this  wilderness  ? 
4* 


42  THEBRIDEOF 

Mait.  It  would  seem  so.  Yet  it  is  her  home.  Wild 
as  it  looks  here,  from  the  top  of  that  hill,  where  our  men 
came  out  on  the  picket  just  now  so  suddenly,  you  will 
see  as  fair  a  picture  of  cultured  life  as  e'er  your  eyes 
looked  on.    No  English  horizon  frames  a  lovelier  one. 

Andre.  Her  el    No! 

Mait.  Between  that  hill  and  the  fort,  there  stretches  a 
wide  and  beautiful  plain,  covered  with  orchards  and  mea- 
dows to  the  wood's  edge  ;  and  here  and  there  a  gentle 
swell,  crowned  with  trees,  some  patch  of  the  old  wilder- 
ness. The  infant  Hudson  winds  through  it,  circling  in 
its  deepest  bend  one  little  fairy  isle,  with  woods  enough 
for  a  single  bower,  and  a  beauty  that  fills  and  character- 
izes, to  its  remotest  line,  the  varied  landscape  it  centres ; 
and  far  away  in  the  east,  this  same  azure  mountain -chain 
we  have  traced  so  long,  with  its  changeful  light  and 
shade,  finishes  the  scene. 

Andre.  You  should  have  been  a  painter,  Maitland. 

Mait.  The  first  time  I  beheld  it — one  summer  evening 
it  was,  from  the  woods  on  the  hill's  brow ; — we  were  a 
hunting  party,  I  had  lost  my  way,  and  ere  I  knew  it 
there  I  stood ; — its  waters  lay  glittering  in  the  sunset 
light,  and  the  window-panes  of  its  quiet  dwellings  were 
flashing  like  gold, — the  old  brown  houses  looked  out 
through  the  trees  like  so  many  lighted  palaces ;  and  even 
the  little  hut  of  logs,  nestling  on  the  wood's  edge,  bor- 
rowed beauty  from  the  hour.    I  was  miles  from  home ; 


FORTEDWARD.  43 

but  the  setting  sun  could  not  -warn  me  away  from  such 
a  paradise,  for  so  it  seemed,  set  in  that  howling  wilder- 
ness, and 

Andre.  Prithee,  go  on.     I  listen. 

Mait.  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  as  I  wandered  slow- 
ly down  the  shady  road,  for  the  first  time  in  years  of 
worldliness^the  dream  that  had  haunted  my  boyhood  re- 
vived again.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean,  Andre  ? — that 
dim  yearning  for  lovelier  beings  and  fairer  places,  whose 
ideals  lie  in  the  heaven-fitted  mind,  but  not  in  the  wil- 
derness it  wakes  in;  that  mystery  of  our  nature,  that 
overlooked  as  it  is,  and  trampled  with  unmeaning  things 
so  soon,  hjdes,after^air,  the  wholegecret  of  this  life's  dark 
enigma. 

Andre.  But  see, — our  time  is  well-nigh  gone, — this  is 
philosophy — I  would  have  heard  a  love  tale. 

Mait.  It  was  then,  that  near  me,  suddenly  I  heard  the 
voice  that  made  this  dull,  real  world,  thenceforth  a  richer 
place  for  me  than  the  gorgeous  dream.-lan.d  of  childhood 
was  of  old. 

Andre.  Ay,  ay — go  on. 

Mait.  Andre,  did  you  ever  meet  an  eye,  in  which  the 
intelligence  of  our  nature  idealized,  as  it  were,  the  very 
poetry  of  human  thought  seemed  to  look  forth  ? 

Andre.  One  such. 

Mait.  —That  reflected  your  whole  being  j  nay,  reveal- 


44  THE     BRIDE     OP 

ed  from  its  mysterious  depths,  new  consciousness,  tliat 
yet  seemed  like  a  faint  memory,  the  traces  of  some  old 
and  pleasant  dream  ? 

Andre.  Methinks  theJi£ay£nly^ev^ation  itself  doth  that. 

Mait.  Such  an  eye  I  saw  then  shining  on  me.  A 
clump  of  stately  pines  grew  on  the  sloping  road-side,  and, 
looking  into  its  dark  embrasure,  I  beheld  a  group  of  mer- 
ry children  around  a  spring  that  gurgled  out  of  the  hill- 

/  side  there,  and  among  them,  there  sat  a  young  girl  clad 
in  white,  her  hat  on  the  bank  beside  her,  tying  a  wreath 

V      of  wild  flowers.     That  was  all — that  was  all,  Andre. 

Andre.  Well,  she  was  beautiful,  1  suppose  ?  Nay,  if  it 
was  the  damsel  t  met  just  now  I  need  not  ask. 

Mait.  Beautiful  ?  Ay,  they  called  her  so.  Beauty 
I  had  seen  before ;  but  from  that  hour_the  sun  shone  with 
another  light,  and  the  very  dust  and  stones  of  this  dull 
earth  were  precious  to  rae.  Beautiful  7  Nay,  it  was 
she.  I  knew  her  in  an  instant,  the  spirit  of  my  being ; 
she  whose  existence  made  the  lovely  whole,  of  which 
/  mine  alone  had  been  the  worthless  and  despised  frag- 
"-  ment.  There  are  a  thousand  women  on  the  earth  the 
artist  might  call  as  lovely, — show  me  another  that  I  can 
worship. 

Andre.  Worship!     This  is  Captain  Everard  Mait- 
land.    If  I  should  shut  my  eyes  now 

Mait,  Well,  go  on;  but  I  tell  you,  ne'ertheless,  there 


fortedward.  45 

have  been  times,  even  in  this  very  spot, — we  often  wan- 
dered here  when  the  day  was  dying  as  it  is  now, — here 
in  her  soft,  breathing  loveliness,  she  has  stood  beside  me, 
when  I  have. — worshipped? — nay,  feared  her,  in  her  \ 
holy  beauty,  as  we  two  should  an  angel  who  should 
come  through. ihatglade  to  us  now. 


Andre.  True  it  is,  something  of  the  Divinity  there  is    ^ 
in  beauty,  that,  in  its  intenser  forms,  repels  with  all  its     jiy 
winningness,  until  the  lowliness  of  love  looks  through  it. 
Well — you  worshipped  her. 

Mait.  Nay,  you  have  told  the  rest.  I  would  have  wor- 
shipped ;  but  one  day  there  came  a  look  from  those  beau- 
tiful eyes,  when  I  met  them  suddenly,  with  a  gaze  that 
sought  the  mystery  of  their  beauty, — a  single  look,  and 
in  an  instant  the  drooping  lash  had  buried  it  forever ; 
but  I  knew,  ere  it  fell,  that  the  world  of  her  young  being 
was  all  mine  already.  Another  life  had  been  forever 
added  unto  mine;  a  whole  creation;  yet,  like  Eden's 
fairest,  it  but  made  another  perfect ;  a  new  and  purer 
se^^'y  and  in  it  grew  the  heaven,  and  the  fairy-land  of 
my  old  dreams,  lovelier  than  ever.  You  have  loved 
yourself,  Andre,  else  I  should  weary  you. 

Andre.  Not  a  bit  the  more  do  I  understand  you 
though.  You  talk  most  lover-like ;  that's  very  clear,  yet  I 
must  say  I  never  saw  the  part  worse  played.  Why, 
here's  your  ladye-love,  this  self-same  idol  of  whom  you 
rave,  at  this  moment  perchance,  breathing  within  these 


46  THEBRIDEOF 

woods, — years  too — two  mortal  years  it  must  be,  since 
you  have  seen  her  face  ;  and  yet — you  stand  here  yet, 
with  folded  arms; — a  goodly  lover,  on  my  word  ! 

Mait.  Softly,  Sir!  you  grace  me  with  a  title  to  which 
I  can  lay  no  claim.  Lover  I  was^  may  be.  I  am  no 
lover  now,  not  I — not  I ;  you  are  right ;  I  would  not  walk 
to  that  knoll's  edge  to  see  the  lady,  Sir. 

Andre,  Well,  I  must  wait  your  leisure,  I  see. 

Mait.  And  yet,  the  lasi  time  that  we  stood  together 
here,  her  arm  lay  on  mine,  my  promised  wife.  A  few 
days  more,  and  by  my  name,  all  that  loveliness  had  gone. 
There  needed  only  that  to  make  that  tie  holy  in  all 
eyes,  the  holiest  which  the  universe  held  for  us ;  but 
needed  there  that,  or  any  thing  to  make  it  such  in  ours» 
Why,  love  lay  in  her  eye,  that  evening,;  like  religion, 
solemn  and  calm. — We  should  have  smiled  then  at 
the  thought  of  any  thing  in  height  or  depth,  ending,  what 
through  each  instant  seemed  to  breathe  eternity  from 
its  own  essence ; — we  were  one,  owe,— that  trite  word  - 
makes  no  meaning  in  your  ear, — to  me,  life's  roses  burst 
from  it ;  music,  sunshine,  Araby,  should  image  what  it 
means  j  what  it  meant  rather,  for  it  is  over. 

Andre.  What  was  it,  Maitland  7 

Mait,  Oh, — well,T-^e  did  not  love  me  ;  that  was  all. 
So  far  my  story  has  told  the  seeming  only,  but  ere  long 
the  trial  came,  and  then  I  found  it  \oas  seeming,  in  good 
sooth.    The  Rebellion  had  then  long  been  maturing,  as 


roftT   fiDWARd.  47 

you  know ;  but  just  then  came  the  crisis.  It  was  the 
one  theme  everywhere.  Of  course  I  took  my  king's 
part  against  these  rebels,  and  at  once  I  was  outraged, 
wronged  beyond  all  human  bearing.  Her  mad  brother, 
her's,  her''s  what  a  world  of  preciousness,  Andre,  that  lit- 
tle word  once  enshrined  for  me  ;  and  still  it  seems  like 
some  broken  vase,  fragrant  with  what  it  held. 

Andre.  And  ever  with  that  name,  a  rosy  flash 
Paints,  for  an  instant,  all  my  world. 
Nay,  'tis  a  little  love-poem  of  my  own  j  go  on,  Maitland^ 

Mait.  This  brother  I  say,  quarrelled  with  me,  though 
I  had  borne  from  him  unresentingly,  what  from  another 
would  have  seemed  insult.  We  quarrelled  at  last,  and 
the  house  was  closed  against  me,  or  would  have  been 
had  I  sought  access;  fori  walked  sternly  by  its  pleasant 
door  that  afternoon,  though  I  remember  now  how  the 
very  roses  that  o'erhung  the  porch,  the  benche^  and 
shaded  porch,  that  lovely  lingering  place,  see^^ed  to 
beckon  me  in.  It  was  a  breathless  summer  day,  and  the 
vine  curled  in  the  open  window, — even  now_thoseJowly\^ 
rooms  make  a  brighter  image  of  heaven  to  rne  Jthan  the  \  ]y 
jewelled  walls  that  of  old  grew  in  the  pageant  of  our 
jsabbath  dreams. 

Andre.  And  thus  you  abandoned  your  love?    A  quar- 
rel with  her  brother? 

Mait.    I  never  wronged  her  with  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt.     Directly,  that  same  day,  I  wrote  to  her  to  fix 


48 


THE     B  RIDE     OP 


our  meeting  elsewhere,  that  we  might  renew  our  bro- 
ken plans  in  some  fitter  shape  for  the  altered  times. 
She  sent  me  a  few  lines  of  grave  refusal,  Sir  j  and  the 
next  letter  was  returned  unopened. 

Andre.  'Twas  that  brother!  Pshaw!  'twas  that  bro- 
ther, Maitland.  I'll  lay  my  life  the  lady  saw  no  word 
of  it. 

Mait.  I  might  have  thought  so  too,  perchance ;  but  that 
same  day, — the  morning  had  brought  the  news  from  Bos- 
ton,— I  met  her  by  chance,  by  the  spring  in  the  little  grove 
where  we  first  met ;  and — Good  Heavens  !  she  talked  of 
brothers  !  Brothers,  mother,  sisters  1 — What  was  their 
!  right  to  mine  ?  All  that  the  round  world  holds,  or  the 
universe,  what  could  it  be  to  her  ? — that  is,  if  she  had 
loved  me  ever;  which,  past  all  doubt,  she  never  did. 

Andre.  Maitland !  Heavens,  how  this  passion  blinds 
you !  And  you  expected  a  gentle,  timid  girl  like  that  to 
abandon  all  she  loved.  Nay,  to  make  her  home  in  the 
very  camp,  where  death  and  ruin  unto  all  she  loved,  was 
the  watchword  ? 

Mait.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir.  I  looked  for  no  such 
thing.  I  offered  to  renounce  my  hopes  of  honor  here  for 
her ;  a  whole  life's  plans,  for  her  sake  I  counted  nothing. 
I  offered  her  a  home  in  England  too,  the  very  real  of  her 
girlhood's  wish ;  my  blighted  fortunes  since,  or  a  home 
in  yonder  camp,— never,  never.    But  if  I  had,  ay,  if  I 


FORT     EDWARD.  49 

had, — that  is  not  love,  call  it  what  you  will,  it  is  not  love, 
to  which  such  barriers  were  any  thing. 

Andre.  Oh  well,  a  word's  a  word.  That's  as  one 
likes.  Only  with  your  definition,  give  me  leave  to  say, 
marvellous  httle  love,  Captain  Maitland,  marvellous  little 
you  wiU  find  in  this  poor  world  of  ours. 

Mait.  I'll  grant  ye. 

Andre.  If  there  is  any  thing  like  it  outside  of  a  poet's 
skull,  ne'er  credit  me. 

Mait.  Strange  it  should  take  such  shape  in  the  creat- 
ing thought  and  in  the  yearning  heart,  when  all  reality 
hath  not  its  archetype. 

Andre.  Hist! 

Mait.  A  careful  step, — one  of  our  party  I  fancy. 

Andre.  'Tis  time  we  were  at  the  rendezvous.  If  we 
have  to  recross  the  river  as  we  came,  on  the  stumps  of 
that  old  bridge,  we  had  best  keep  a  little  day -light  with 
us,  I  think.  [Exeunt. 


50  THE     BRIDE     OF 


DIALOGUE  II. 

Scene.    A  chamber  in  the  Parsonage.    Helen  leaning 
from  the  open  window. 

Annie  enters. 

Annie.  Helen  Grey,  where  on  earth  have  you  "been  ? 
Woodjiowers! 

Helen.  Come  and  look  at  this  sunset. 

Annie.  Surely  you  have  not,  you  cannot  have  been  in 
those  woods,  Helen:  and  yet,  where  else  could  this  peri- 
winkle grow,  and  these  wild  roses? — Delicious  ! 

Helen.  Hear  that  flute.  It  comes  from  among  those 
trees  by  the  river  side. 

Annie.  It  is  the  shower  that  has  freshened  every 
thing,  and  made  the  birds  so  musical.  You  should 
stand  in  the  door  below,  as  I  did  just  now,  to  see  the  fort 
and  the  moistened  woods  stands  out  from  that  black  sky, 
with  all  this  brightness  blazing  on  them. 

Helen.  'Tis  lovely — all. 

Annie.  There  goes  the  last  golden  rim  over  the  black- 
ening woods  ;  already  even  a  shade  of  tender  mourning 
steals  over  all  things,  the  very  children's  voices  under  this 
tree, — how  soft  they  grow. 


PORT    EDWARD.  61 

Helen.  Will  the  day  come  when  we  shall  see  him 
sink,  for  the  last  time,  behind  those  hills  ? 

Annie.  Nay,  Helen,  why  do  you  mar  this  lovely  hour 
with  a  thought  like  that? 

Helen.  And  in  another  life,  shall  we  see  light,  when    ^.-^ 
his,  for  us,  shines  no  more  ? — What  sound  is  tHaF'? 

Annie.  That  faint  cry  from  the  woods  ? 

Helen.  No, — more  distant, — far  off  as  the  horizon,  like 
some  mighty  murmur,  faintly  borne,  it  came. 

Annie.  I  wish  that  we  had  gone  to-day.  I  do  not 
like  this  waiting  until  Thursday  ; — just  one  of  that  elder 
brother's  foolish  whims  it  was.  I  cannot  think  how  your 
consent  was  won  to  it.  Did  you  meet  any  one  in  your 
walk  just  now? 

Helen.  No — Yes,  yes,  I  did.  The  little  people  where 
I  went,  I  met  by  hundreds,  Annie.  Through  the  dark 
aisles,  and  the  high  arches,  all  decked  in  blue,  and  gold, 
and  crimson,  they  sung  me  a  most  merry  welcome. 
And  such  as  these — see — You  cannot  think  how  like 
long-forgotten  friends  they  looked,  smiling  up  from  their 
dark  homes,  upon  me. 

Annie.  You  have  had  chance  enough  to  forget  them 
indeed, — it  is  two  years,  Helen,  since  you  have  been  in 
those  woods  before.  What  could  have  tempted  you  there 
to-day  ? 

Helen.  Was  there  danger  then  ? — was  there  danger 


52 


THE      BRIDE     OF 


indeed  ? — I  was  by  the  wood-side  ere  I  knew  it,  and 
then, — it  was  but  one  last  look  I  thought  to  take — nay, 
what  is  it,  Annie  ?  George  met  me  as  I  was  coming 
home,  and  I  remember  something  in  his  eye  startled  me 
at  first ;  but  if  there  was  danger,  I  should  have  known  of 
it  before. 

Annie.  How  could  we  dream  of  your  going  there 
this  evening,  when  we  knew  you  had  never  set  your 
foot  in  those  woods  since  the  day  Everard  Maitland  lelt 
Fort  Edward? 

Helen.  Annie !    ' 

Annie.  For  me,  I  would  as  soon  have  looked  to  see 
Maitland  himself  coming  from  those  woods,  as  you. 

Helen.  Annie !  Annie  Grey !  You  must  not,  my  sis- 
ter— do  not  speak  that  name  to  me,  never  again,  never. 

Annie.  Why,  Helen,  I  am  sorry  to  have  grieved  you 
thus  ;  but  I  thought — Look  !  look !  There  go  those  offi- 
cers again,^-there,  in  the  lane  between  the  orchards. 
Scarcely  half  an  hour  ago  they  went  by  to  the  fort  in 
just  such  haste.  There  is  something  going  on  there,  I 
am  sure. 

{Helen  rises  from  the  window^  and  walks  the  room. 

Annie.  In  truth  there  was  a  rumor  this  afternoon, — 
you  are  so  timid  and  fanciful,  our  mother  chose  you 
should  not  hear  it  while  it  was  rumor  only  ;  but  'tis  said 
that  a  party  of  the  enemy  have  been  seen  in  those  woods 


FORTEDWARD.  53 

to-day,  and,  among  them,  the  Indians  we  have  counted 
so  friendly.    Do  you  hear  me,  Helen  ? 

Helen.  That  he  should  live  still!  Yes,  it  is  all  real 
still !  That  heaven  of  my  thought,  that  grows  so  like  a 
pageant  to  me,  is  still  real  somewhere.  Those  eyes — 
they  are  darkly  shining  now;  this  very  moment  that 
passes  me,  drinks  their  beauty ; — that  voice, — that  tone, — 
that  very  tone — on  some  careless  ear,  even  now  it  wastes 
its  luxury  of  blessing.  Continents  ot  hail  and  darkness, 
the  polar  seas — all  earth's  distance,  could  never  have 
parted  me  from  him ;  but  now  I  live  in  the  same  world 
with  him,  and  the  everlasting  walls  blacken  between 
us.  Those  looks  may  shine  on  the  dull  earth  and  sense- 
less stones,  but  not  on  me ;  on  uncaring  eyes,  but  not  on 
mine ;  though  for  one  moment  of  their  lavished  wealth, 
I  could  cheaply  give  a  life  without  them ;  never  again, 
never,  never,  never  shall  their  love  come  to  me. 

Annie.  Who  would  have  thought  she  could  cherish  in 
secret  a  grief  like  this?  Dear  sister,  we  all  believed 
you  had  forgotten  that  sad  affair  long  ago, — we  thought 
that  you  were  happy  now. 

Helen.  Happy  ? — lam,  you  were  right;  but  I  have  been 
to-day  down  to  the  very  glen  where  we  took  that  last 
lovely  walk  together,  and  all  the  beautiful  past  came 
back  to  me  like  life. — I  am  happy ;  you  must  count  me 
so  still. 

Annie.  With  what  I  have  just  now  heard,  how  can  I  ? 

Helen.  It  is  this  war  that  has  parted  us;  and  so,  this 
5* 


54  THEBRlDEOr 

is  but  my  part  in  these  noble  and  suflfering  times,  and 
that  great  thought  reaches  overall  my  anguish.  But  for 
this  war  I  might  have  been — hath  this  world  such  flow- 
ers, and  do  they  call  it  a  wilderness  I—-!  might  have  been, 
even  now,  you  know  it,  Annie,  his  wife,  his  wife,  his. 
But  our  hearts  are  cunningly  made,  many-stringed ;  and 
often  much  good  music  is  left  in  them  when  we  count 
them  broken.  That  which  makes  the  bitterness  of  this 
lot,  the  inconceivable,  unutterable  bitterness  of  it,  even 
that  I  can  bear  now,  calmly,  and  count  it  God's  kindness 
too. 

Annie.  I  do  not  understand  you,  sister. 

Helen.  What  if  this  young  royalist,  Annie,  when  he 
quarrelled  with  my  brother,  and  took  arms  against  my 
country,  what  if  he  had  kept  faith  tome? 

Annie.  Well. 

Helen.  Well?  Oh  no,  it  would  not  have  been  well. 
Why,  my  home  would  have  been  with  that  pursuing 
army  now,  my  fate  bound  up  with  that  hollow  cause, — 
these  very  hands  might  have  fastened  the  sword  of  op- 
pression ;  nay,  the  sword  whose  edge  was  turned  against 
you,  against  you  all,  and  against  the  cause,  that  with 
tears,  night  and  morning,  you  were  praying  for,  and  with 
your  heart's  best  blood  stood  ready  to  seal  every  hour. 
No,  it  is  best  as  it  is;  or  if  my  wish  grows  deeper  still,  if 
in  my  heart  I  ei^vy,  with  murmuring  thought,  the  blessed 
brides,  on  whose  wedding  dawns  the  laughing  sun  of 


rORTEDWARD.  55 

peace,  then  with  a  wish  I  cast  away  the  glory  of  these 
suffering  times. — It  is  best  as  it  is.    I  am  content. 

Annie.  I  wish  I  could  understand  you,  Helen.  You 
say,  "  if  he  had  kept  faith  to  you ;" — carried  you  off,  you 
mean!  Do  you  mean,  sister  Helen,  that  of  your  own 
will  you  would  ever  have  gone  with  him,  with  Everard 
Maitland, — that  traitor  ? 

Helen.  Gone  with  him'^  Would  I  not?  Would  I 
not  ?  Dear  child,  we  talk  of  what,  as  yet,  you  know  no- 
thing of.  Gone  with  him  ?  Some  things  are  holy,  An- 
nie, only  until  the  holier  cojoEKr^"^ 

Annie,  (looking  toward  the  door.)  Stay,  stay.  What 
is  it,  George  ? 

(  George  Grey  comes  in.) 

George.  I  was  seeking  our  mother.  What  should  it 
be,  but  ill  news  ?  This  tide  is  against  us,  and  if  it  be 
not  well-nigh  full,  we  may  e'en  fold  our  arms  for  the  rest. 
There,  read  that.     (  Throwing  her  a  letter.) 

Every  face  you  see  looks  as  if  a  thunder-clond  were 
passing  it.  I  heard  one  man  say,  just  now,  as  I  came  in, 
that  the  war  would  be  over  in  a  fortnight's  time. 
There'll  be  some  blood  spilt  ere  then,  I  reckon  though. 

Helen.  What  paper  is  that  that  reddens  her  cheek  so 
suddenly  ? 

Annie.  The  McGregor's ! — think  of  it,  Helen, — gone 
over  to  the  British  side,  and  St.  John  of  the  Glens,  and 
—who  brought  you  this  letter,  George?  'Tis  false!     I 


56  THEBRIDEOF 

do  not  believe  it,  not  a  word  of  it.  Why,  here  are  twen- 
ty names,  people  that  we  know,  the  most  honorable,  too, 
— forsaking  us  now,  at  such  a  crisis  ! 

George.  Self-defence,  self-defence,  sister;  their  lands 
and  their  houses  must  be  saved  from  devastation.  What 
sort  of  barracks  think  you,  would  that  fine  country-seat  of 
McGregor's  make  ? — and  St.  John's — he  is  a  farmer  you 
know,  and  his  fields  are  covered  with  beautiful  grain, 
that  a  week  will  ripen,  and  so,  he  is  for  turning  his  sword 
into  a  sickle; — besides,  there  are  worse  things  than  pil- 
lage threatened  here.  Look,  {unfolding  a  hand-hill.) 
Just  at  this  time  comes  this  villainous  proclamation 
from  Skeensborough,  scattered  about  among  our  soldiers 
nobody  knows  how,  half  of  them  on  the  eve  of  desertion 
before,  and  the  other  half — what  ails  you,  Helen? 

Helen.    There  he  stands  ! 

Annie.  Is  she  crazed  ?  Why  do  you  clasp  your  hands 
so  wildly?  for  Heaven's  sake,  Helen! — her  cheek  is 
white  as  death. — Helen  ! 

Helen.  Is  he  gone,  Annie  ? 

Annie.  As  I  live,  I  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking 
of.  Nay,  look ;  there  is  no  one  here,  none  that  you 
need  fear,  most  certainly. 

Helen.  I  saw  him,  his  eye  was  on  me ;  there  he 
stood,  looking  through  that  window,  smiling  and  beckon- 
ing me. 


PORTEDWARD.  57 

George.  Saw  him  ?  Who^  in  Heaven's  name  ?  This 
is  fancy-work. 

Helen.  I  saw  him  as  I  see  you  now.  He  stood  on 
that  roof, — an  Indian, — I  saw  the  crimson  bars  on  his 
face,  and  the  blanket,  and  the  long  wild  hair  on  his 
shoulders ;  and — and,  I  saw  the  gleaming  knife  in  his 
girdle,— Oh  God !  I  did.  --.---'- 

George.  Ay,  ay,  'twas  that  scoundrel  that  dogged  us 
in  our  way  home,  I'll  lay  my  life  it  was. 

Helen.  In  our  way  home  ^    An  Indian^  I  said. 

George.  Well,  well,  and  I  say  an  Indian,  a  rascal  In- 
dian, was  watching  and  following  us  all  the  way  home 
just  now. 

Helen.  George  ! 

George.  Then  you  did  not  see  him  after  all.  In  truth, 
I  did  not  mean  you  should,  for  we  could  not  have  hurried 
more,  but  all  the  time  we  sat  in  that  shanty,  while  it 
rained,  about  as  far  off  as  that  chair  from  me,  stood  this 
same  fellow  among  the  bushes,  watching  us,  or  rather 
you.  And  you  saw  him  here  1  He  might  have  crept 
along  by  that  orchard  wall.  What  are  you  laughing  at, 
Annie  ? — I  will  go  and  see  what  sort  of  a  guard  we 
have. 

Annie.  If  you  knew  as  much  of  Helen's  Indians  as  I 
do,  you  would  hardly  be  in  such  a  hurry,  George,  I  mean 
about  this  one  that  was  here  just  now,  for  there  are  In^ 
diaos  in  yonder  forest  I  suppose  ;  but  since  we  were  so 


58 


THE     BRIDE     OF 


high,  I  never  walked  in  the  woods  with  her  once,  but 
that  we  encountered  one,  or  heard  his  steps  among  the 
bushes  at  least;  and  if  it  chanced  to  be  as  late  as  this, 
there  would  be  half  a  dozen  of  them  way-laying  us  in 
the  road, — but  sometimes  they  turned  ^out  squirrels, 
and  sometimes  logs  of  wood,  and  sometimes  mere  air, 
air  of  about  this  color.  We  want  a  little  light,  that  is  all. 
There  is  no  weapon  like  that  for  these  fancy-peopl^.  I 
can  slay  a  dozen  of  them  with  a  candle's  beams. 
(  George  goes  out.) 
Helen.  Do  not  laugh  at  me  to-night,  Annie. 

Annie.  But  what  should  the  Indians  want  of  you, 
pry'thee  ;  tell  me  that,  Helen? 

Helen.  God  knows.  Wait  till  the  sun  sets  to-morrow, 
and  I  will  laugh  with  you  if  you  are  merry  then. 

Annie.  Why  to-morrow  ? — because  it  is  our  last  day 
here?  Tuesday — Wednesday — yes;  the  next  day  we 
shall  be  on  the  road  to  Albany.  \_Exit. 

Helen.  I  am  awake  now.  Watched  me  in  the  glen  ? 
— followed  me  home  ?  Those  woods  are  full  of  them. — 
But  what  has  turned  their  wild  eyes  on  me  ? 

It  is  but  one  day  longer  ; — we  have  counted  many,  in 
peril  and  fear,  and  this,  is  the  last ; — even  now  how  soft- 
ly the  fearful  time  wastes.  One  day  ! — Oh  God,  thou 
only  knowest  what  its  shining  walls  encircle.  {She  leans 
on  the  windoii',  musing  silently.)  Two  years  ago  I 
stood  here,  and  prayed  to  die. — On  that  same  tree  my 


FORT     EDWARD.  59 

eye  rested  then.  With  what  visions  of  hope  I  played 
under  it  once,  building  bowers  for  fairies  I  verily  thought  1 
would  come,  and  dreaming,  with  yearning  heart,  of  glo- 
rious and  beautiful  things  this  world  Aa^A  not.  But, 
that  wretched  day,  through  blinding  tears,  I  saw  the  sun- 
light on  its  glossj^Jeaves^  and  I  said,  '  let  me  see  that 
light  no  more.'  _  Surely  the  bitterness  is  deep  when  t|iat 
which  hath  colored  all  our  unfolded  being,  is  a  weariness. 
For  what  more  hath  hfe  for  me  I  thought,  its  lesson  is 
learned  and  its  power  is  spent, — it  can  please,  and  it  can 
trouble  me  no  more  ;  and  why  should  I  stay  here  in  vain 
and  wearily  ? 

It  was  sad  enough,  indeed,  to  see  the  laughing  spring 
returning  again,  when  the  everlasting  winter  had  set  in 
within,  to  link  with  each  change  of  the  varied  year, 
sweet  with  a  life's  memories,  such  mournfulness ;  lay- 
ing by,  one  by  one,  all  hope's  blessed  spells,  withered  and 
broken  forever, — the  moonlight,  the  songs  of  birds,  the 
blossom  showers  of  April,  the  green  and  gold  of  autumn's 
sunset, — it  was  sad,  but  it  was  not  in  vain. — Not  in  vain, 
Oh  God,  didst  thou  deny  that  weeping  prayer, 

{A  merry  voice  is  heard  without,  and  a  child's  face 
peeps  through  the  window  that  overlooks  the  or- 
chard.) 

Child.  Look !  look !  sister  Helen !  see  what  I  have 
found  on  the  roof  of  the  piazza  here, — all  covered  with 
wampum  and  scarlet,  and  here  are  feathers  too — two 


60  THE     BRIDE     Of 

feathers  in  it,  blue  and  yellow — eagle's  feathers  they  are* 
I  guess. 

Helen  {approaching  the  window.)  Let  me  see,  Willy* 
What,  did  you  find  it  here  1 

Willy.  Just  under  the  window  here.  Frank  and  I 
were  swinging  on  the  gate ;  and— there  is  something 
hard  in  it,  Helen, — feel. 

Helen.  Yes,  it  is  very  curious ;  but' 

Willy.  There  comes  Netty  with  the  candle ;  now  we 
can  see  to  untie  this  knot. 

Helen*  Willy,  dear  Willy,  you  must  give  it  to  me,  you 
must  indeed,  and — I  will  paint  you  a  bird  to-morrow. 

Willy.  A  blue-bird,  will  you  ?    A  real  one  ? 

Helen.  Yes,  yes;— run  down  little  climber ;  see  how 
dark  it  grows,  and  Frank  is  waiting,  see. 

Willy.  Well.  But  mind  you,  it  must  be  a  blue  bird 
then.     A  real  one.     With  the  red  on  his  breast,  and  all. 

lExit. 

(She  walks  to  the  table,  unfastening  the  envelope.) 

Helen,  What  sent  that  thrill  of  forgotten  life  through 
me  then? — that  wild,  delicious  thrill?  This  is  strange, 
indeed.    A  sealed  pacquet  within !  and  here 

{She  glances  at  the  superscription,  and  the  pacquet 
drops  from  her  hand.) 


PORT     EDWARD.  61 

No — no.  I  have  seen  that  hand-writing  in  my  dreams 
before,  but  it  dissolved  always.  What's  joy  better  than 
grief,  if  it  pierce  thus?  Can  never  a  one  of  all  the  soul's 
deep  melodies  on  this  poor  instruaient  be  played  out,  then 
— trembling  and  jarring  thus,  even  at  the  breath  of  its 
most  lovely  passion.— And  yet,  it  is  some  cruel  thing,  I 
know. 

( The  pacquet  opened,  discovers  Helen's  miniature,  a 
hook,  a  ring,  and  other  tokens,) 

Cruel  indeed !  That  little  rose ! — He  might  have  spared 
me  this.  A  dull  reader  I  were,  in  truth,  if  this  needed 
comment, — but  I  knew  it  before.  He  might  have,  spar- 
ed me  this. 

{She  leans  over  the  recovered  relics  with  a  burst  of 
'passionate  weeping.) 

Yet,  who  knows — {lifting  her  head  with  a  sudden 
smile,)  some  trace,  some  little  curl  of  his  pencil  1  may 
find  among  these  leaves  yet,  to  tell  me,  as  of  old, — 

{A  letter  drops  from  the  hook,  she  tears  it  eagerly 
open.) 

{Reading.)  These  cold  words  I  understand,but — letters  I 
— He  wrote  me  none !  Was  there  ever  a  word  between 
us,  from  the  hour  when  he  left  me,  his  fancied  bride,  to 
that  last  meeting,  when,  at  a  word,  and  ere  I  knew  what 
I  had  said,  he  turned  on  me  that  cold  and  careless  eye, 
and  left  me,  haughtily  and  forever?    And  now— (read' 


62  THEBRIDEOF 

ing) — ^misapprehension,  has  it  been!  Is  the  sun  on 
high  again  ? — in  this  black  and  starless  night — the  noon- 
day sun?  He  loves  me  still. — Oh  !  this  joy  weighs  like 
grief. 

Shall  I  see  him  again  ?  Joy  !  joy !  Beautiful  sun- 
shine joy  !  Who  knows  the  soul's  rich  depths  till  joy 
hath  lighted  them  ? — from  the  dim  and  sorrowful  haunts 
of  memory  will  he  come  again  into  the  living  present? 
Shall  I  see  those  eyes,  looking  on  me?  Shall  I  hear  my 
name  in  that  lost  music  sound  once  more? — His? — Am 
I  his  again  ?  New  mantled  with  that  shining  love,  like 
some  glorious  and  beautiful  stranger  I  seem  to  myself, 
Helen — the  bright  and  joy-wreathed  thing  his  voice 
makes  that  name  mean — My  life  will  be  all  full  of  that 
blest  music.    I  shall  be  Helen,  evermore  his — his. 

No, — it  would  make  liars  of  old  sages, — and  all  books 
would  read  wrong.  A  life  of  such  wild  blessedness?  It 
would  be  fearful  like  living  in  some  magic  land,  where 
the  honest  l?iws  of  nature  were  not.  A  life  ? — a  moment 
were  enough.  Ages  of  common  life  would  shine  in  it. 
{Reading  again.)  "  Elliston's  hut  ?"— "  If  I  choose  that 
the  return  should  be  mutual, — and  the  memorials  of  a  de- 
spised regard  can  at  best  be  but  an  indifferent  possession ; 
— a  pacquet  reinclosed  directly  in  this  same  envelope, 
and  left  at  the  hut  of  the  missionary,  cannot  fail  to  reach 
him  safely." 

"Safely." — Might  he  not  come  there  safely  then? 
And  might  I  not  go  thither  safely  too,  in  to-morrow's 
Ught? 


PORT     EDWARD, 


63 


O  God,  let  not  Passion  lead  me  now.  The  centre 
beaming  truth,  not  passion's  narrow  ray,  must  light  me 
here  ! — But  am  I  not  his  ? 

Once  more,  one  horizon  circles,  for  a  day,  our  long- 
parted  destinies  ;  another,  and  another  wave  of  these 
wild  times  will  drift  them  asunder  again,  forever ;  and 
I  count  myself  his  wife.  His  wife  ? — nay,  his  bride,  his 
two  years'  bride,  to-ni^ht,  his  wife,  to-morrow.  He  must 
meet  me  there,  {writing)  at  noon,  I  wUl  say. — I  did  not 
think  that  little  hut  of  logs  should  have  been  my  mar- 
riage-hall ; — he  must  meet  me  there,  and  to-morrow  is 
my  bridal  day 


PART  THIRD. 


IF^'lI'Ilp 


DIALOGUE  I. 

Scene.  The  hill — Night — Large  Jires  burning — Sen- 
tinels dimly  seen  in  the  hack-ground.  A  young  Indian 
steals  carefully  from  the  thicket.  He  examines  the 
ground  and  the  newly-felled  trees. 

Indian.  One,  two,  three.  And  this  is  ringed.  The 
dogs  have  spoiled  the  council-house. 

(Soldiers  rush  forward.) 

1st  Sol.  So,  Mr.  Red-skin !  would  not  you  like  a  scalp 
or  two  now,  to  string  on  your  leggings  ?  Maybe  we  can 
help  you  to  one  or  so.  Hold  fast.  Take  care  of  that 
arm,  I  know  him  of  old. 


THE     BRIDE    OP    PORT     EDWARD.  65 

(  The  Indian  J  with  a  violent  struggle^  disengages  him- 
self^ and  darts  into  the  thicket.) 

No  ?  well, — dead  or  alive,  we  must  have  you  on  our  side 
again.  {Firing.) 

2nd  Sol.  He's  fixed,  Sir. 

\st  Sol.  Hark.  Hark, — off  again !  Let  me  go. 
What  do  you  hold  me  for,  you  scoundrel  ? 

2nd  Sol.  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  Will  Wilson. 
There  will  be  a  dozen  of  them  yelling  around  you  there. 
Besides,  he  is  half  way  to  the  swamp  by  this.  Look 
here ;  what's  this,  in  the  grass  here  ? 

1st  Sol.  There  was  something  in  his  hand,  but  he 
clenched  it  through  it  all, — this  is  a  letter.  Bring  it  to 
the  fire. 

2d  Sol.  (reading.)  "  This  by  the  Indian,  as  in  case 
I  am  taken,  he  may  reach  the  camp  in  safety.  Not 
over  three  thousand  men  in  all,  I  should  thifik, — very 
little  ammunition,  soldiers  mostly  discouraged. — In 
Albany,  they  are  tearing  the  lead  off  the  windows  of  the 
houses,  and  taking  the  id  eights  from  the  shops  for  ball. 
Talk  of  retreating  on  Thursday  to  the  neio  encamp- 
ment, five  miles  below.    More  ichen  I  get  to  you.''' 

More  !  Humph !  A  pretty  string  of  lies  he  has  got 
here  already.     This  must  go  to  the  General,  Dick. 

\_Exeunt. 


6* 


66  THEBRIDEOF 

DIALOGUE  II. 

Scene.  Chamber  in  the  Parsonage.  Moonlight. 
Annie  sitting  by  the  window^  the  door  open  into  an 
adjoining  room. 

Annie.  {Calling.)  Come,  come, — why  do  you  sit 
there  scribbliDg  so  late,  Helen  ?  Come,  and  enjoy  this 
beautiful  night  with  me.  Ay,^  wliat^a  w,oxld  jof  invisible 
jijfe  amid  the  dew  and  darkness  utters  its  glad  voices; 
even  the  little  insect  we  never  saw  by  day,  makes  us  feel 
for  once  the  great  brotherhood  of  being.  This  day  week  . 
we  shall  be  in  Albany, — no  more  such  scenes  as  this 
then. 

{Helen  approaches  the  window,  and  puts  her  arm  gen- 
tly around  her  sister.) 

Helen.  No  more !— It  was  a  sad  word  you  were  saying, 
Annie. 

Annie.  How  you  startled  me.  Your  hands  are  cold, 
— cold  as  icicles,  and  trembling  too.  What  ails  you, 
Helen? 

Helen.  'Tis  nothing. — How  often  you  and  I  have 
stood  together  thus,  looking  down  on  that  old  bridge. — 
Summer  and  winter. — Do  you  remember  the  cold  snowy 
moonlights  of  old,  when  the  sound  of  the  distant  bell 
had  hope  in  it  ?     We  shall  stand  together  thus,  no  more. 

Annie.  Do  not  speak  so  sadly,  Helen.    I  cannot  think 


PORTEDWARD.  67 

they  will  destroy  our  home  in  mere  wantonness.  Was 
there  not  some  one  coming  up  the  path  just  now? 
Hark !  there  is  news  with  that  tone.  \^Eant. 

Helen.  A  little  more,  an  hour  perchance,  and  he  will 
read  my  letter.  Why  do  I  tremble  thus  ?  Is  it  because 
I  have  done  wrong,  that  these  dark  misgivings  haunt 
me  1  No, — it  is  not  remorse — 'tis  very  like — yet  remorse 
it  is  not.  Danger,  there  is  none.  I  shall  but  walk  to  the 
wood-side  as  to-day,  that  little  path  to  the  hut  is  quickly 
trod,  and  he  will  be  waiting  there.  I  shall  be  safe  then, 
safe  as  I  care  to  be. — Why  do  I  stand  here  reasoning 
thus  1  Safe  ?  And  if  I  were  not,  what  is  it  to  me  now  ? 
The  dark  plan  is  laid.  The  fearful  acting  now  is  all 
that's  left  for  me. 

This  must  go  to  the  lodge  to-night,  and  ere  my  mother 
returns  ; — to  tell  them  now,  would  be  to  make  my  scheme 
impossible. 

{She  begins,  with  a  reluctant  air,  to  fold  the  dresses, 
which  are  lying  loosely  by  her.) 

Oh  God !  whence  do  these  dark  and  horrible  thoughts 
grow  ? — Nay,  feeling  not  born  of  thought.  That  wed- 
ding robe  looks  like  a  shroud  to  me  !  I  cannot.  Shar 
dows  from  things  unseen  are  upon  me.  The  future  is  a 
night  oi  tempest,  where  I  hear  nothing  but  the  breaking 
boughs,  and  the  whirl  and  crash  of  the  mourning  blast. 
Oh  God !  there  is  no  refuge  for  the  fearful,  but  in  thee. — 
To  thee — no.  If  there  is  power  in  prayer  of  mine,  hath 
it  not  aheady  doomed  that  wicked  cause,  my  fate  is  link- 


68  TH£BRID£OF 

ed  with  nQW^-—l4Minnot  pray.-— GaH-I-»<jtW*How  the 
pure  strengthfoineswelling  ly) Jrojoiits-infinite  depths. 

Hear  me — uot  with  lip  service,  I  beseech  thee  now, 
bat  with  the  earnestness  that  stays  the  rushing  heart's 
blood  in  its  way. — Hear  me.  Let  the  high  cause  of 
right  and  freedom,  whose  sad  banner,  now,  on  yonder 
hill,  floats  in  this  summer  air;  whose  music  on  this  soft 
night-breeze  is  borne — let  it  prevail — though  /,  with  all 
this  sensitive,  warm,  shrinking  life ;  with  all  this  new- 
found wealth  of  love  and  hope,  lie  on  its  iron  way. 

I  am  safe  now. — This  life  that  I  feel  now,  steel  can- 
not reach. 

(Annie  enters.) 

Annie.  Dear  Helen,  dress  yourself.  It  is  all  true ! 
We  must  go  to-night,  we  must  indeed.  They  are  dis- 
mantling the  fort  now. — Come  to  the  door,  and  you  can 
hear  them  if  you  will ;  and  here  is  word  from  Henry,  we 
must  be  ready  before  morning — the  British  are  within 
sight.  Do  you  hear  me,  Helen  ?  Do  not  stand  looking 
at  me  in  that  strange  way. 

Helen.  To-night! 

Annie.  I  was  frightened  myself  at  firsr,  sadly ;  but 
there  is  no  danger,  not  the  least.  We  shall  be  in  Albany 
to-morrow,  Henry  says.  Come,  Helen,  there  is  no  one 
to  see  to  any  thing  but  ourselves.  They  are  running 
about  like  mad  creatures  there  below,  and  the  children 
are  crying,  and  such  a  lime  you  never  saw. 


PORTEDWARD.  69 

Helen.  To-night!  That  those  beautiful  lips  should 
speak  it !     Take  it  back.    It  cannot  be.    It  must  not  be. 

Annie.  Why  do  you  look  so  reproachfully  at  me? 
Helen,  you  astonish  and  frighten  me ! 

Helen.  Yes — yes — I  see  it  all.  And  why  could  I  not 
have  known  this  one  hour  sooner  ? — Even  now  it  may 
not  be  too  late.     Annie — 

Annie.  Thank  Heaven,— there  is  my  mother's  voice 
at  last. 

Helen.  Annie,  stay.  Do  not  mark  what  I  have  I 
said  in  the  bewilderment  of  this  sudden  fear.  Is  George 
below  ? — Who  brought  this  news  ? 

Annie.  One  of  the  men  from  the  fort. — George  has 
not  been  home  since  you  sent  him  to  Elliston's.  She  is 
calling  me.    Make  haste  and  come  dpwn,  Helen. 

{Exit. 

Helen.  They  will  leave  me  alone.  They  will  leave 
me  here  alone.  And  why  could  I  not  have  known  this 
one  hour  sooner? — I  could  have  bid  him  come  to-night — 
If  the  invisible  powers  are  plotting  against  me,  it  is  well. 
Could  I  have  thought  of  this? — and  yet,  how  like  some- 
thing I  had  known  before,  it  all  comes  upon  me. — Can  I 
stay  here  alone  ? — Could  I  ? — No  never,  never !  He 
must  come  for  me  to-night.  Perchance  that  pacquet 
still  lies  at  yonder  hut,  and  it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  recal 
my  letter; — if  it  is — if  it  is,  I  must  find  some  other  mes- 
senger.    Thank  God  ! — there  is  one  way.     ElUston  can 


70 


THE     B  RIDE     OP 


send  to  that  camp  to-night.    He  can — even  now, — He 
can— he  will. —  [Exit. 


DIALOGUE  III. 

Scene.     The  porch.    Helen  waiting  the  return  of  her 
messenger  from  the  hut. 

Helen.  How  quiet  and  soft  it  all  lies  in  this  solemn 
light.  Is  it  illusion  ?— can  it  be  ?— that  old,  familiar  look, 
that  from  these  woods  and  hills,  and  from  this  moon-lit 
meadow,  seems  to  smile  on  me  now  with  such  a  holy 
promise  of  protection  and  love? — The  merry  trill  in  this 
apple-tree  is  the  very  sound  that,  waking  from  my  infant 
sleep  in  the  hush  of  the  summer  midnight,  of  old  lulled, 
nay,  wakened  my  first  inward  thought.  Oh  that  my  heart's 
youngest  religion  could  come  again,  the  feeling  wi.tli 
which  a  little  chiirTooKsupfo  tliese  mighty  stars,  as  the 
spangles  on  his  home-roof,  while  he  stands  smiling  be- 
neath the  awful  shelter  of  the  skiesj  as  undera.iatlier's 
dome.  But  these  years  show  us  the  evil  that  mocks  that 
trust. 

'Tis  he, — What  a  mere  thread  of  time  separates  me 
from  my  fate,  and  yet  the  darkness  of  ages  could  not  hide 
it  more  surely.     Already  he  has  reached  the  lane.     Ano- 


FORT     EDWARD.  ?! 

ther  minute  will  show  me  all.  Will  the  pacquet  be  in 
his  hand,  or  will  it  not?  I  will  be  calm — it  shall  be  like 
a  picture  to  me. 

Ah!  there  is  an immeastnrable-power  about  us,  a  for- 
eign and  strange  things  that  answers  net  to  the  soul,  that 
seems  to  know  or  to  heed  nothing  of  the  living  suffering, 
rejoicing  being  of  the  spirit.      Why  should  I  struggle 
with  it  any  longer  ?    From  my  weeping  childhood  to  this 
hour,  it  hath  set  its  irqii^bars  aboqt  me  ;  no — softly  yield- 
ing, hath  it  not  sometimes,  the  long,  undreamed-of  vis- 
tas opened,  bright  as  heaven, — and  now,  maybe — how 
slow  he  moves — even  now  perchance. — This  is  wrong. 
The  Infinite  is  One.      The  Goodness  Infinite,  whose  \ 
everlasting  smile  lighteth  the  inner  soul,  and  the  Power     J  Y 
Infinite,  whose  alien  touch  without,  in  darkness  comes,  J 
they  are  of  One,  and  the  good  know  it. 

The  Messenger.    (  Coming  up  the  path.) 

Bless  you,  Miss!  The  pacquet  had  been  gone  this 
hour ! 

Helen.  Gone !    Well. — And  Elliston — what  said  he  ? 

Mess.  I  brought  this  note  of  yours  back,  Miss  Helen. 
Father  EUiston  was  gone.  Here  has  been  an  Indian 
killed  on  Sandy  Hill  this  evening,  Alaska's  own  son  as 
it  turns  out,  and  such  a  hubbub  as  they  are  making  about 
it  you  never  heard.  I  met  a  couple  of  squaws  myself, 
yelling  like  mad  creatures,  and  the  woods  are  all  alive 
with  them.    The  priest  has  gone  down  to  their  village 


If  2  tHEBRlDEOF' 

lo  pacify  them  if  it  maybe, — so  I  brought  the  note  back, 
Miss  Helen,  for  there  was  no  one  there  but  a  little  rascal 
of  an  Indian,  and  I  would  not  trust  the  worth  of  a  feather 
with  one  of  them.     Was  I  right  ? 

Helen.  Yes.  Give  it  to  me.  How  far  is  it  to  the  Bri- 
tish camp  ? 

Mess.  Why,  they  are  just  above  here  at  Brandon's 
Mills  they  say,  that  is,  the  main  body.  It  can't  be  over 
three  miles,  or  so. 

0 

Helen.  Three  miles  !  only  three  miles  of  this  lovely 
moonlight  road  between  us. — William  McReady,  go  to 
that  camp  for  me  to-night. 

Mess.  To  the  British  camp  ? 

Helen.  Ay. 

Mess.  To  the  British  camp!  Lord  bless  you,  Miss. 
I  should  be  shot — I  should  be  shot  as  true  as  you  are  a 
living  woman.  I  should  be  shot  for  a  deserter,  or,  what's 
worse,  I  should  be  hanged  for  a  spy. 

Helen.  What  shall  I  do  ! 

Mess.  And  besides,  there's  Madame  Grey  will  be 
wanting  me  by  this  time.  See  how  the  candles  dance 
about  the  rooms  there. 

Helen.  Yes,  you  are  right.  We  must  go  in  and  help 
them.    Come, 

( They  enter  the  house.) 


rORT    EDWARD.  73 


DIALOGUE  IV. 

Scene.  The  British  camp.  Moonlight.  A  lady  in  a 
rich  travelling  dress,  standing  in  the  door  of  a  log- 
hut. 

Lady  Ackland.  {Talking  to  her  maid  within.) 
What  is  the  matter,  Margaret  ?  What  do  you  go  steal- 
ing about  the  walls  so  like  a  mad  woman  for,  with  that 
shoe  in  your  hand  ? 

Maid.  (  Within.)  There,  Sir ! — your  song  is  done  ! — 
there's  one  less,  I  am  certain  of  that.  ( Coming  to  the 
door.)  If  ever  I  get  home  alive,  my  lady — Ha! — (strik- 
ing the  door  with  her  slipper.)  If  ever — you  are  there, 
are  you?  I  believe  I  have  broken  my  ear  in  two.  The 
matter?     Will  your  ladyship  look  here? 

Lady  A.  Well. 

Maid,  And  if  ever  I  get  back  to  London,  I'll  say  well 
too.  If  ever  I  get  back  to  London  aUve,  my  lady, — I'll 
see 

Lady  A.  What  will  you  see,  Margaret?  Nothing 
lovelier  than  this,  I  am  sure.  Are  you  not  ashamed  to 
stand  muttering  there?  Come  here,  and  look  at  this 
beautiful  night. 

Maid.  La,  Lady  Harriet ! 
7 


74  THE     BRIDE     OF 

Lady  A.  Listen  !  How  still  the  camp  is  now !  Yo« 
can  hear  the  rush  of  those  falls  we  passed,  distinctly. 
How  pretty  the  tents  look  there,  in  that  deep  shade. 
These  tuneful  frogs  and  katy-dids  must  be  our  nightin- 
gales to-night.  Indeed,  as  I  stand  now,  I  could  almost 
fancy  that  fine  wood  there  was  my  father's  park ;  nay,  me- 
thinks  I  see  the  top  of  the  old  gray  turrets  peeping  out 
among  the  shadows  there.    Look,  Margaret,  do  you  see? 

Maid.  La  !  I  can  see  woods  enough,  my  lady,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean, — nothing  else,  and  1  have  seen 
enough  of  them  already  to  last  me  one  life  through.  Yes, 
here's  a  pretty  tear  I  have  got  amongst  them ! — Two 
guineas  and  a  half  it  cost  me  in  London, — 1  pray  I  may 
never  set  my  eyes  on  a  wood  again. 

Lady  A.  This  was  some  happy  home  once,  I  know. 
See  that  rose-bush,  and  this  little  bed  of  flowers. — Here 
was  a  pretty  yard — thefe  went  the  fence, — and  there, 
where  that  waggon  stands,  by  that  broken  pear-tree, 
swung  the  gate.  And  pleasant  meetings  there  have 
been  at  this  door,  no  doubt,  and  sorrowful  partings  too, 
— and  hearts  within  have  leaped  at  the  sound  of  that 
gate,  and  merry  tales  have  been  told  by  that  desolate 
hearth.  In  this  little  lonely  unthought-of  place,  the  mys- 
terious world  of  the  human  soul  has  unfolded, — the  drama 
oflife  been  played,  as  grandly  in  the  eyes  of  angels  as 
in  the  proud  halls  where  ray  life  dawned.  And  there  are 
hearts  that  cling  to  this  desolate  spot  as  mine  does  to 


PORTEDWARD.  75 

that  far-off  home.     We  have  driven  them,  away  in  sor- 
row and  fear.     This  is  war  ! 

Maid.  I  wonder  who  is  fluting  under  that  tree  there, 
so  late.  They  are  serenading  that  Dutch  woman,  as  I 
live. 

Lady  A.  The  Baroness,  are  you  talking  of,  Margaret  1 

Maid.  A  baroness !  Good  sooth  ! — she  looks  like  it, 
in  that  yellow  silk,  and  those  odious  beads,  fussing  about. 
If  your  ladyship  will  believe  me,  I  saw  her  sitting  in 
her  tent  to-night,  ay,  in  the  door,  feeding  that  wretched 
child  with  her  own  hands.  We  can't  be  thankful 
enough  they  did  not  put  her  in  here  with  us,  I'll  own. 

Lady  A.  Hush,  hush,  for  shame !  We  might  well 
have  spared  that  empty  room.  Come,  we'll  go  in — It's 
very  late.  Strange  that  Sir  George  should  not  be  here 
ere  this. 

Maid.  Look,  my  lady  !  Here's  some  one  at  the  gate. 
{An  officer  enters  the  little  court,  with  a  hasty  step.) 

Officer.  Good  evening  to  your  ladyship. — Is  Captain 
Maitland  here  ? — Sir  George  told  me  that  he  left  him 
here. 

Lady  A.  Ay,  but  he  has  been  gone  this  hour.  Stay, 
it  is  Andre's  flute  you  hear  below  there,  and  some  one 
has  joined  him  just  now — yes,  it  is  he. 

Off.  Under  that  tree  ; — thank  you,  my  lady. 

Lady  A.  Stay,  Colonel  Hill, — I  beg  your  pardon,  but 


76  THEBRIDEOP 

you  spoke  so  hastily. — This  young  Maitland  is  a  friend 
of  oursj  I  trust  there  is  nothing  that  concerns  him  pain- 
fuUy.— 

Off.  Oh  nothing,  nothing,  except  that  he  is  ordered 
oS  to  Fort  Ann  to-night.  There  are  none  of  us  that 
know  these  wild  routes  as  well  as  he.  \^Exit. 

Lady  A.  Good  Heavens !     What  noise  is  that  ? 

Maid.  Lord  'a  mercy !     The  battle  is  coming? 

Lady  A.  Hush !  {To  a  sentinel  who  goes  whistling 
by.)     Sirrah,  what  noise  is  that  1 

S^entinel.  It's  these  Indians,  my  lady ;  they  have  found 
the  son  of  some  chief  of  theirs  murdered  in  these  woods, 
and  they  are  bringing  him  to  the  camp  now.  That's  the 
mourning  they  make. 

Lady  A.  The  Lord  protect  us  ! 

( They  enter  the  house.) 


DIALOGUE  V. 


Scene.     The  interior  of  a  tent.    Maitland^  in  travel- 
ling equipments,  pacing  thejloor. 

Maitland.  William !  Ho  there  ! 


PORT     EDWARD.  TJ 

Servant.  {Looking in.)  Your  honor? 

Mail.  Is  not  that  horse  ready  yet  ? 

SerH.  Presently,  your  honor.  \_Exit. 

Mail.  So  the  fellow  has  been  here,  it  seems,  and  re- 
turned again  to  Fort  Edward  without  seeing  me.  Of 
course,  my  lady  deigns  no  answer. — An  answer  !  Well, 
I  thought  I  expected  none.  Ten  minutes  ago  I  should 
have  sworn  I  expected  none.  Why,  by  this  time  that 
letter  of  mine  has  gone  the  rounds  of  the  garrison,  no 
doubt.     William ! 

(The  servant  enters.) 

Bring  that  horse  round,  you  rascal. — must  I  be  under 
your  orders  too,  forsooth  7 

SerH.  Certainly,  your  honor, —but  if  he  could  but  just, 
— I  am  a-going,  Sir, — but  if  he  could  but  just  take  a 
mouthful  or  two  more.  There's  never  a  baiting-place 
tUl— 

Mait.  Do  you  hear  7 

(  The  Servant  retreats  hastily.) 

Mait.  The  curse  of  having  lived  in  these  wilds  cleaves 
to  me  in  all  things.  Here  are  Andre  and  Mortimer,  and 
a  hundred  more,  and  none  but  I  for  this  midnight  ser- 
vice. 

SerH.  {Re-entering.)  The  horse  is  waiting,  Sir, — but 
here's  two  of  these  painted  creturs  hanging  about  the 
7* 


78  THEBRIDEOF 

door,  waiting  to  see  you.  {Handing  him  a  'packet.) 
There's  no  use  in  swearing  at  them,  Sir,  they  don't  un- 
derstand it. 

Mait.  {Breaking  the  seals  hastily,  he  discovers  the 
miniature.)    Back  again !     Well,  we'll  try  drowning 
next, — nay,  this  is  as  I  sent  it !     That  rascal  dropped  it 
in  the  woods  perhaps  !     Softly, — ^what  have  we  here  ? 
{He  discovers^  and  reads  the  letter.) 

Who  brought  this  ? 

SerH.  The  Indian  that  was  here  yesterday. 

Mait.  Alaska !  Here's  blood  on  the  envelope,  on  the 
letter  too,  and  here — This  packet  has  been  soaked  in 
blood.    {Re-reading  the  letter.) 

"  To-morrow  "•— "  twelve  o'clock  "  to-morrow — Look 
if  the  light  be  burnmg  in  the  Lady  Ackland's  window, — 
she  was  up  as  I  passed.  "  Twelve  o'clock  " — There  are 
more  horses  on  this  route  than  these  cunning  settlers 
choose  to  reckon.  Why,  there  are  ten  hours  yet — 
I  shall  be  back  ere  then.  Helen — do  I  dream? — This  is 
love  ! — How  I  have  wronged  her. — This  is  love ! 

SerH.  {At  the  door.)  The  horse  is  waiting,  Sir, — and 
this  Indian  here  wont  stir  till  he  sees  you. 

Mait.  Alaska — I  must  think  of  it,-— risk  7 — I  would 
pledge  my  life  on  his  truth.  He  has  seen  her  too, — I  re- 
member now,  he  saw  her  with  me  at  the  lake.  Let  him 
come  in. — No,  stop,  I  will  speak  with  him  as  I  go. 

{^Exeunt. 


FORT     EDWARD.  79 


DIALOGUE  VI. 


Scene.    Lady  Ackland's  door. 

Lady  Ackland.  Married!— His  wife?— Well,  I  think 
I'll  not  try  to  sleep  again.  There  goes  Orion  with 
his  starry  girdle. — Married — is  he  ? 

Maid.  Was  not  that  Captain  Maitland  that  was  talk- 
ing here  just  now.  Lady  Harriet  % 

Lady  A.  Go  to  bed,  Margaret,— go  to  bed, — but  look 
you  though.  To-morrow  with  the  dawn  that  furnishing 
gear  we  left  in  the  tent  must  be  unpacked,  and  this 
empty  room — whose  wife,  think  you,  is  my  guest  to- 
morrow, Margaret  ? 

Maid.  Bless  me  !  If  I  were  to  guess  till  daylight,  my 
lady — 

Lady  A.  This  young  Maitland,  you  think  so  hand- 
some, Margaret — 

Maid.  I  ? — la,  it  was  not  I,  my  lady,  I  am  sure. 

Lady  A.  — He  will  bring  us  his  wife  home  here  to- 
morrow, a  young  and  beautiful  wife. 

Maid.  Wife?— 

Lady  A.  Poor  child, — we  must  give  her  a  gentle  wel- 
come. Do  you  remember  those  flowers  we  saw  in  the 
glen  as  we  passed  ? — I  will  send  for  them  in  the"  mom- 


80  THEBRIDEOP 

ing,  and  we  will  fill  the  vacant  hearth  with  these  blos- 
soming houghs. ^=^ 

Maid.  But,  here — in  these  woods,  a  wife ! — where  on 
earth  will  he  bring  her  from,  my  lady  ? 

Lady  A.  Ay,  we  shall  see,  to-morrow  we  shall  see, 
— go  dream  the  rest. 

[^Exit  the  maid. 

Lady  A.  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?— so  cold  and 
proud  he  seemed,  so  scornful  of  our  sex. — And  yet  I 
knew  something  there  lay  beneath  it  all. — Even  in  that 
wild,  gay  mood,  when  the  light  of  mirth  filled  and  o'er- 
flowed  those  splendid  eyes, — deeper  still,  I  saw  always 
the  calm  sorrow-beam  shining  within. 

That  picture  he  showed  me — how  pretty  it  was  ! — 
The  face  haunts  me  with  its  look  of  beseeching  loveli- 
ness.— Was  there  anything  so  sorrowful  about  it  though? 
— Nay,  the  look  was  a  smile,  and  yet  a  strange  mourn- 
fulness  clings  to  my  thought  of  it  now.  Well,  if  the  painter 
hath  not  dissembled  in  it — the  painter  ? — no.  The 
spirit  of  those  eyes  was  of  no  painter's  making.  From 
the  Eidos  of  the  Heavenly  Mind  sprung  that. 

I  shall  see  her  to-morrow. — Nay,  I  must  meet  her  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  camp, — so  went  my  promise,— if 
Maitland  be  not  here  ere  then.  \^Exit» 


FORT    EDWARD 


81 


THOUGHTS. 

ScEUE.     The  Hill.     The  Studenfs  Night-watch. 

How  beautiful  the  night,  through  all  these  hours 

Of  nothingness,  with  ceaseless  music  wakes 

Among  the  hills,  trying  the  melodies 

Of  myriad  chords  on  the  lone,  darkened  air, 

With  lavish  power,  self-gladdened,  caring  nought 

That  there  is  none  to  hear.    How  beautiful ! 

That  men  should  live  upon  a  world  like  this. 

Uncovered  all,  left  open  every  night 

To  the  broad  universe,  with  vision  free 

To  roam  the  long  bright  ^lleries  of  creation, 

Yet,  to  their  strange  destiny  ne'er  wake. 

Yon  mighty  hunter  in  his  silver  vest, 

That  o'er  those  azure  fields  walks  nightly  now, 

In  his  bright  girdle  wears  the  self-same  gems 

That  on  the  watchers  of  old  Babylon 

Shone  once,  and  to  the  soldier  on  her  walls 

Marked  the  swift  hour,  as  they  do  now  to  me. 

Prose  is  the  dream,  and  poetry jhe  truth. 

That  which  we  call  reality,  is  but 

Reality's  worn  surface,  that  one  thought  \  V 

Into  the  bright  and  boundless  all  might  pierce. 

Tare's  not  a  fragment  of  this  weary  real 

That  hath  not  in  its  lines  a  story  hid 

Stranger  than  aught  wild  chivalry  could  tell. 


82  THEBRIDEOF 

There's  not  a  scene  of  this  dim,  daily  life, 

But,  in  the  splendor  of  one  truthful  thought 

As  from  creation's  palette  freshly  wet. 

Might  make  young  romance's  loveliest  picture  dim, 

.And  e'en  the  wonder-land  of  ancient  spng, — 

Old  Fable's  fairest  dream,  a  nursery  rhyme. 

How  calm  the  night  moves  on,  and  yet 

In  the  dark  rnorrow,  that  behind  those  hills 

Lies  sleeping  now,  who  knows  what  waits  ? — 'Tis  well. 

He  that  made  this  life,  I'll  trust  with  another. 

To  be, — there  was  the  risk.     We  might  have  waked 

Amid  a  wrathful  scene,  but  this, — with  all 

Its  lovely  ordinances  of  calm  days. 

The  golden  morns,  the  rosy  evenings, 

Its  sweet  sabbath  hours  and  holy  homes, — 

If  the  same  hidden  hand  from  whence  these  sprung, 

That  dark  gate  opens,  what  need  we  fear  there? — 

Here's  wrath,  but  none  that  hath  not  its  sure  pathway 

Upward  leading, — there  are  tears,  but  'tis 

A  school-time  weariness ;  and  many  a  breeze 

And  lovely  warble  from  our  native  hills, 

Through  the  dim  casement  comes,  over  the  worn 

And  tear-wet  page,  unto  the  listening  ear 

Of  our  home  sighing — to  the  listening  ear. 

Ah,  what  know  we  of  life? — of  that  strange  life 

That  this,  in  many  a  folded  rudiment. 

With  nature's  low,  unlying  voice,  doth  point  to. 

Is  it  not  very  like  what  the  poor  grub        j      j 

Knows  of  the  butterfly's  gay  being  ? —  rT^-^ 


PORT     EDWARD.  83 

With  its  colors  strange,  fragrance,  and  song, 
And  robes  of  floating  gold  with  gorgeous  dyes, 
And  loveliest  motion  o'er  wide,  blooming  worlds. 
That  dark  dream  had  ne'er  imaged  ! — 

Ay,  sing  on, 
Sing  on,  thou  bright  one,  with  the  news  of  life. 
The  everlasting,  winging  o'er  our  vale. 
Oh  warble  on,  thy  high,  strange  song. 
What  sayest  thou? — a  land  o'er  these  dark  cliffs. 
A  land  all  glory,  where  the  day  ne'er  setteth — 
Where  bright  creatures,  mid  the  deathless  shades. 
Go  singing,  shouting  evermore  ?     And  yet 
'Twere  vain.     That  wild  tale  hath  no  meaning  here, 
Thou  warbler  from  afar.    Like  music 
Of  a  foreign  tongue,  on  our  dull  sense, 
The  rich  thought  wastes. — We  have  been  nursed  in  tears, 
Thro'  all  we've  known  of  life,  we  have  known  grief, 
And  is  there  none  in  life's  deep  essence  mixed  ? 
Is  sorrow  but  thejgung  soul's  garment  then? — 
A  baby  mantle,  doffed  forever  here, 
Within  these  lowly  walls. 

And  we  were  born 
Amid  a  glad  creation ! — then  why  hear  we  ne'er 
The  silver  shout,  filling  the  unmeasured  heaven  ? — 
Why  catch  we  e'er  the  rich  plume's  rustle  soft, 
Or  sweep  of  passing  lyre  !     Our  tearlul  home 
Hung  'mid  a  gay,  rejoicing  universe. 
And  ne'er  a  glimpse  adowa  its  golden  paths  ? — 


84  THEBRlDEOf 

Oh  are  there  eyes,  soft  eyes  upon  us, 

In  the  dark  and  in  the  davj  shining  unseen. 

And  everlasting  sraileSj  brightening  unfelt 

On  all  our  tears :    News  sweet  and  strange  ye  bring* 

Hither  we  came  from  our  Creator's  hands. 

Bright  earnest  ones,  looking  for  joy,  and  lo, 

A  stranger  met  us  at  the  gate  of  life, 

A  stranger  dark,  and  wrapped  us  in  her  robe. 

And  bore  us  on  through  a  dim  vale. — Ah,  not 

The  world  we  looked  for, — for  an  image  in 

Our  souls  was  born,  of  a  high  home,  that  yet 

We  have  not  seen.   And  were  our  childhood's  yearnings, 

Its  strange  hopes,  no  dreams  then,— dim  revealings 

Of  a  land  that  yet  we  travel  to  ?— 

But  thou,  oh  foster-mother,  mournful  nurse, 

So  long  upon  thy  sable  vest  we're  leaned. 

Thou  art  grown  dear  to  us,  and  when  at  last 

At  yonder  blue  and  burning  gate 

Thou  yieldest  up  thy  trust,  and  joy  at  last 

In  her  own  wild  embrace  enfolds  us  once,  e'en 

From  the  jewelled  bosom  of  that  dazzling  one, 

From  the  young  roses  of  that  smiling  face. 

Shall  we  not  turn  to  thee,  for  one  last  glimpse 

Of  that  wan  cheek,  and  solemn  eye  of  love, 

And  watch  thy  stately  step,  far  down 

This  dim  world's  fading  paths  ?     Take  us,  kind  ^onrow-i 

We  will  lean  our  young  head  meekly  on  thee ; 

Good  and  holy  is  thy  ministry. 


FORTEDWARD.  85 

Oh  handmaid  of  the  Hallg  thou  ne'er  mayst  tread. 
And  let  the  darkness  gather  round  that  world, 
Not  for  the  vision  of  thy  glittering  walls 
We  ask,  nor  glimpse  of  brilliant  troops  that  roam 
Thine  ancient  streets,  thou  sunless  city, — 
Wrap  thy  strange  pavillions  still  in  clouds, 
Let  the  shades  slumber  round  thy  many  homes. 
By  faith,  and  not  by  sight,  through  lowly  paths 
Of  goodness,  sorrow-led,  to  thee  we  come. 


PART  FOURTH. 


IfWaH'SILMISlSg'S'a 


DIALOGUE  I. 

Scene.  T%e  ground  before  the  fort.  Baggage  wa-' 
gons.  Cannon  dismounted.  Confused  sounds  with* 
in,    A  soldier  is  seen  leaning  on  his  rifle. 

{Another  soldier  enters.) 

2nd  Sol.  It's  morning!  Look  in  the  east  there.    What 
are  we  waiting  for? 

1st  Sol.  Eh !    The  devil  knows  best,  I  reckon,  Sir. 

2nd  Sol.  Hillo,  John!     What's  the  matter  there? 
Here's  day-break  upon  us !    What  are  we  waiting  for? 

{Another  soldier  enters,) 


THE     BRIDE    OP    PORT     EDWARD.  87 

2d  Sol  To  bufld  a  bridge— that  is  all. 

2nd  Sol.  A  bridge  ? 

3d  Sol.  We  shall  be  off  by  to-morrow  night,  no  doubt  of 
it, — if  we  don't  chance  to  get  cooked  and  eaten  before 
that  time, — some  little  risk  of  that. 

2nd  Sol.  But  what's  the  matter  below  there,  I  say  ? 
The  bridge  ?  what  ails  it  1 

3d  Sol.  Just  as  that  last  wagon  was  going  over,  down 
comes  the  bridge,  Sirs,  or  a  good  piece  of  it  at  least. — 
What  else  could  it  do? — timbers  half  sawn  away ! 

2nd  Sol.  Some  of  that  young  jackanape's  work  !  Aid- 
de-camp  !  I'd  aid  him.  He  must  be  ordering  and  fid- 
getting,  and  fuming. — Could  not  wait  till  we  were  over. 

\st  Sol.  All  of  a  piece,  boys  ! 

3d  Sol.  Humph.  I  wish  it  had  been, — the  bridge,  I 
mean. 

1st  Sol.  But,  I  say,  don't  you  see  how  every  thing, 
little  and  great,  goes  one  way,  and  that,  against  us  ? 
Chance  has  no  currents  like  this !  It's  a  bad  side  that 
Providence  frowns  on.  I  think  when  Heaven  deserts  a 
cause,  it's  time  for  us  poor  mortals  tobegin  to.think about 
it. 

3d  Sol.  Now,  if  you  are  going  to  do  so  mean  a  thing 
as  that,  don't  talk  about  Heaven — prythee  don't. 

[They  pass  on. 


Ob  THEBRIDEOF 

(7^100  other  soldiers  enter.) 

Ath  Sol.  (singing.) 

Yankee  doodle  is  the  tune 

Americans  delight  in, 
^  Twill  do  to  whistle,  sing,  or  play, 
And  just  the  thing  for  fighting. 

Yankee  doodle,  hoys,  huzza 

{Breaking  off  abruptly.)  I  do  not  like  the  looks  of  it, 
Will 

Uh  Sol.  Of  what  ? 

Ath  Sol.  Of  the  morniDg  that  begins  to  glimmer  in  the 
east  there. 

5th  Sol.  ISol  Why,  I  was  thinking  just  now  I  never 
saw  a  handsomer  summer's  dawning.  That  first  faint 
light  on  the  woods  and  meadows,  there  is  nothing  I  like 
better.     See,  it  has  reached  the  river  now. 

4:th  Sol.  But  the  mornings  we  saw  two  years  ago 
looked  on  us  with  another  sort  of  eye  than  this, — it  is  not 
the  glimmer  of  the  long,  pleasant  harvest  day  that  we  see 
there. 

5th  Sol.  We  have  looked  on  mornings  that  promised 
better,  I'll  own.  I  would  rather  be  letting  down  the  bars 
in  the  old  meadow  just  now,  or  hawing  with  my  team 
down  the  brake ;  with  the  children  by  my  side  to  pick 
the  ripe  blackberries  for  our  morning  meal,  than  standing 


FORTEDWARD.  89 

here  in  these  rags  with  a  gun  on  my  shoulder.    Let 
well  alone. — We  could  not  though. 

4:th  Sol.  (Handing  him  a  glass.)  See,  they  are  begin- 
ning to  form  again.  It  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  fu- 
neral train. 

5th  Sol.  What  was  the  Stamp  Act  to  us,  or  aU  the 
acts  beyond  the  sea  that  ever  were  acted,  so  long  as 
they  left  us  our  golden  fields,  our  Sabbath  days,  the  quiet 
of  the  summer  evening  door,  and  the  merry  winter 
hearth.  The  Stamp  Act 'I  It  would  have  been  cheap- 
er for  us  to  have  written  our  bills  6n  gold-leaf,  and  for 
tea,  to  have  drunk  melted  jewels,  like  the  queen  I  read 
of  once  ;  cheaper  and  better,  a  thousand  times,  than  the 
bloody  cost  we  are  paying  now. 

4:th  Sol.  It  was  not  the  money.  Will, — it  was  not  the 
money,  you  know.  The  wrong  it  was.  We  could  not 
be  trampled  on  in  that  way, — it  was  not  in  us — we  could 
not. 

6th  Sol.  Ay,  ay.  A  fine  thing  to  get  mad  about  was 
that  when  we  sat  in  the  door  of  a  moonlight  evening  and 
the  day's  toils  were  done.  It  was  easy  talking  then. 
Trampled  on  !  I  will  tell  you  when  I  was  nearest  being 
trampled  on,  Andros, — when  I  lay  on  the  ground  below 
there  last  winter, — on  the  frozen  ground,  with  the  blood 
running  out  of  my  side  like  a  river,  and  a  great  high- 
heeled  German  walking  over  my  shoulder  as  if  I  had 
been  a  hickory  log.  I  can  tell  you.  Sir,  that  other  was  a 
8* 


90  THEBRIDEOr 

moon-shiny  sort  of  a  trampling  to  that.  I  shall  bear  to  be 
trampled  on  in  figures  the  better  for  it,  as  long  as  I  Uve. 
Between  ourselves  now 

4:th  SoL  There's  no  one  here. 

5th  SoL  There  are  voices  around  that  corner,  though. 
Come  this  way.  [  They  pass  on. 

(Another  group  of  Soldiers.) 

Ist  SoL  Then  if  nothing  else  happensj'we  are  off  now. 
Hillo,  Martin !  Here  we  go  again— skulking  away. 
Hey  ?  What  do  you  say  now  ?  Hey,  M  r.Martin,  what 
do  you  say  now  ? 

2nd  SoL  (Advancing.)  What  I  said  before. 

1st  SoL  But  where  is  all  this  to  end.  Sir?  Tell  us 
that— tell  us  that. 

3d  SoL  Yes,  yes, — tell  us  that.  If  you  don't  see  Bur- 
goyne  safe  in  Albany  by  Friday  night,  never  trust  me, 
Sirs. 

1st  SoL  A  bad  business  we've  made  of  it. 

ith  SoL  Suppose  he  gets  to  Albany  ; — do  you  think 
that  would  finish  the  war  ? 

3d  SoL  Well,  indeed,  I  thought  that  was  settled  on  all 
hands,  Sir.  I  believe  the  General  himself  makes  no  se- 
cret of  that. 

^th  SoL  And  what  becomes  of  us  all  then  ?     We 


PORT     EDWARD.  91 

shall  go  back  to  the  old  times  again,  I  suppose; — weren't 
so  very  bad  though,  Sam,  were  they  1 

1st  Sol.  We  have  seen  worse,  I'll  own. 

3d  Sol.  And  what  becomes  of  our  young  nation  here, 
with  its  congress  and  its  army,  and  all  these  presidents, 
and  gene  als,  and  colonels,  and  aide-de-camps? — wont  it 
look  hke  a  great  baby-house  when  the  hubbub  is  over, 
and  the  colonies  settle  quietly  down  again  ? 

2nd  Sol.  Faith,  you  take  it  very  coolly.  Before  that 
can  happen,  do  you  know  what  must  happen  to  you? 

1st  Sol.  Nothing  worse  than  this,  I  reckon, 

2nd  Sol.  (makes  a  gesture  to  denote  hanging.) 

4:th  Sol.  What  would  they  hang  us  though  ?  Do  you 
think  they  would  really  hang  us,  John  ? 

2nd  Sol.  Wait  and  see. 

Is^  Sol.  Nonsense !  nonsense  !  A  few  of  the  ring- 
leaders, Schuyler,  and  Hancock,  and  Washington,  and  a 
few  such,  they  will  hang  of  course, — but  for  the  rest, — 
we  shall  have  to  take  the  oath  anew,  and  swallow  a  few 
duties  with  our  sugar  and  tea,  and 

2nd  Sol.  You  talk  as  if  the  matter  were  all  settled 
already. 

1st  Sol.  There  is  no  more  doubt  of  it,  than  that  you 
and  I  stand  here  this  moment.  Why,  they  ^re  flocking 
to  Skeensborough  from  all  quarters  now,  and  this  poor 


92  THEBRIDEOF 

fragment, — this  miserable  skeleton  of  an  anny,  which  is 
the  only  earthly  obstacle  between  Burgoyne  and  Albany, 
why,  even  this  is  crumbling  to  pieces  as  fast  as  one  can 
reckon.  Two  hundred  less  than  we  were  yesterday  at 
this  hour,  and  to-morrow — how  many  are  off  to-morrow  ? 
Ay,  and  what  are  we  doing  the  while  1  Bowing  and 
retreating,  cap  in  hand,  from  post  to  post,  from  Crown 
Point  to  Ticonderoga,  from  Ticonderoga  to  Fort  Ed- 
ward, from  Fort  Edward  onward ;  just  showing  them 
down,  as  it  were,  into  the  heart  of  the  land.  Let  them 
get  to  Albany — Ah,  let  them  once  get  to  Albany,  they'll 
need  no  more  of  our  help  then,  they'll  take  care  of  them- 
selves then  and  us  too, 

2nd  Sol.  They'll  never  get  to  Albany, 

Ut  Sol  Hey  ? 

2nd  Sol.  They'll  never  get  to  Albany. 

1st  Sol.  What's  to  hinder  them  ? 

2nd  Sol.  We, — yes  we, — and  such  as  we,  craven- 
hearted  as  we  are.  They'll  never  get  to  Albany  until  we 
take  them  there  captives. 

3d  Sol.  Then  they'll  wait  till  next  week,  I  reckon. 

Ist  Sol.  Ha  ha  ha !  Ha  ha  ha !  How  many  prison- 
ers shall  we  have  a-piece,  John  ?  How  many  regiments, 
I  mean  ?  They'll  open  the  windows  when  we  get  there, 
won't  they  ?  I  hops  the  sun  will  shine  that  day.  How 
grandly  we  shall  march  down  the  old  hill  there,  with  our 


PORTEDWARD.  93 

train  behind  us.  I  shall  have  to  borrow  a  coat  of  one  of 
them  though,  they  might  be  ashamed  of  their  captor 
else. 

3^  Sol.  When  is  this  great  battle  to  be,  John  ?  This 
don't  look  much  like  it. 

4:th  Sol.  I  think  myself,  if  the  General  would  only  give 
us  a  chance  to  fight 

2nd  Sol.  A  chance  to  throw  your  life  away, — he  will 
never  give  you.  A  chance  to  fight,  you  will  have  ere 
long, — doubt  it  not.  Our  General  might  clear  his  black* 
ened  fame,  by  opposing  this  force  to  that, — this  day  he 
might ; — he  will  not  do  it.  The  time  has  not  yet  come. 
But  he  will  spare  no  pains  to  strengthen  the  army,'  and\ 
prepare  it  for  victory,  and  the  glory  he  will  leave  to  his 
rival.  Recruits  will  be  pouring,  in  ere  long.  General 
Burgoyne's  proclamation  has  weakened  us, — General 
Schuyler  will  issue  one  himself  to-day. 

1st  Sol.  Will  he  ?  will  he  ?  What  will  he  proclaim  ? 
— As  to  the  recruits  he  gets,  I'll  eat  them  all,  skin  and 
bone.  What  will  he  proclaim  ?  You  see  what  Bur- 
goyne  oSlers  us.  On  the  one  hand,  money  and  clothing, 
and  protection  for  ourselves  and  our  families ;  and  on  the 
other,  the  cord,  and  the  tomahawk,  and  the  scalping- 
knife.  Now,  what  will  General  Schuyler  set  down  over 
against  these  two  columns? — What  will  he  ofier  us? — 
To  lend  us  a  gun,  maybe, — leave  to  follow  him  from  one 
post  to  another,  barefooted  and  starving,  and   for  our 


94  THEBRIDEOP 

pains  to  be  cursed  and  reviled  for  cowards  from  one  end 
of  the  land  to  the  other.  And  what  will  he  threaten  ? 
Ha,  we  were  cowards  indeed,  if  we  feared  what  he  could 
threaten.  What  thing  in  human  nature  will  he  speak 
to  ? — say. 

2nd  Sol.  I  will  tell  you.  To  that  spirit  in  human  na- 
ture which  resists  the  wrong,  the  fiendish  wrong  threat- 
ened there.  Ay,  in  the  "basest, nature  that  power  sleeps, 
and  out  of  the  bosom  of  Omnipotence  there  is  nothing 
stronger.  )^  It  has  wakened  here  once,  and  this  war  is  its 
fruit.  It  slumbers  now.  Let  Burgoyne  look  to  it  that 
he  rouse  it  not  himself  for  us.  Let  him  look  to  it.  For 
every  outrage  of  those  fiendish  legions,  thank  God. — It 
lays  a  finger  on  the  spring  of  our  only  strength.  What 
will  he  oflfer  us  ?  I  will  tell  you.— A  chance  to  live,  or  to 
f  die^ — men, — ay,  to  leave  a  sample  of  manhood  on  the 
earth,  that  shall  wring  tears  from  the  selfish  of  unborn 
ages,  as  they  feel  for  once  the  depths  of  the  slumbering 
and  godlike  nature  within  them.  \  And  Burgoyne, — oh  ! 
a  coat  and  a  pair  of  shoes,  he  ofiers,  and — how  many 
pounds  ? — Are  you  men  ? 

ith  Sol  Wha^t  do  you  say,  Sam  ?-— TlaUks  like  a  miji- 
ister,  don't  he  ?    \ 

1st  Sol.  Come,  come, — there's  the  dium,  boys.    You 
don't  bamboozle  me  again !     I've  heard  all  that  before. 

3d  Sol.  Nor  me.— I  don't  intend  to  have  my  wife  and 


FORTEDWARD.  95 

children  tomahawkedj^don't  think  I  can  stand  that,  re- 
fugee or  not. 

2nd  Sol.  Here  they  come. 

(  Other  Soldiers  enter.) 

5th  Sol.  All's  ready,  all's  ready. 

6th  SqI.  (singing.) 

"  Come  hloio  the  shrill  bugle,  the  war  dogs  are  howl- 
ingj^^ \_Exeunt. 


DIALOGUE  II. 

Scene.  Before  the  door  of  the  Parsonage.  Trunks, 
boxes,  and  various  articles  of  furniture,  scattered 
about  the  yard.     Two  men  coming  down  the  path. 

{George  Grey  enters.) 

George.  Those  trunks  in  the  forward  team.  Make 
haste.  We've  no  time  to  lose.  This  box  in  the  wa- 
gon where  the  children  are.  —  Carefully  —  carefully, 
though. 

{A  Soldier  enters,) 


96  THEBRIDEOP 

Sol.  Hurra,  hurra,  the  house  there !  Are  you  ready  *? 
Ten  minutes  more. 

George.  Get  out.  What  do  you  stand  yelling  there 
for  ?     We  know  all  about  it. 

Sol.  But  your  brother,  the  Captain,  says,  I  must  hurry 
you,  or  you'll  be  left  behind. 

George.  Tell  my  brother,  the  Captain,  I'll  see  to  that. 
We  want  no  more  hurrying.  We  have  had  enough  of 
that  aheady,  and  much  good  it  has  done  us  too.  Stop, 
stop, — not  that.  We  must  leave  those  for  the  Indians  to 
take  their  tea  in. 

Workman.  But  the  lady  said 

George.  Never  mind  the  lady.  Well,  Annie,  are  you 
ready  ?  Don't  stand  there  crying ;  there's  no  use.  We 
may  come  back  here  again  yet,  you  know.  Many  a 
pleasant  sunrise  we  may  see  from  these  windows  yet. 
Heaven  defend  us,  here  is  this  aunt  of  ours. — What  on 
earth  are  they  bringing  now  7 

(A  Lady  in  the  door  with  a  couple  of  portraits^  followed 
by  others  bringing  baskets  and  boxes,  etc.) 

Lady.  That  will  do,  set  them  down  j  now,  the  Colonel 
and  his  lady,  on  the  back  room  wall,  just  over  against 
the  beaufet.     Stop  a  moment.    I'll  go  with  you  myself. 

Betty.  (In  the  door.)  Lord  'a  mercy  !  Here  it  is 
broad  day-light.  What  are  we  waiting  for  ?  lam  aU 
ready.    Why  don't  we  got 


FORT     EDWARD.  97 

George.  I  tell  you,  Aunt  Rachael,  the  thing  is  impossi- 
ble. This  trumpery  can't  go,  and  there's  the  end  of  it. 
St.  George  and  the  Dragon — 

Miss  Rachael.  Never  mind  this  young  malapert — do 
as  I  bid  you. 

Betty.  Lord  'a  mercy,  we  shall  all  be  murdered  and 
scalped,  every  soul  of  us.  Bless  you — there  it  is  in  the 
garret  now! — ^just  hold  this  umberell  a  minute,  Mr. 
George, — think  of  those  murderous  Indians  wearing  my 
straw  bonnet.  Lord  bless  you  !  What  are  you  doing  ? 
a  heaving  my  umberell  over  the  fence,  in  that  fashion ! 

George.  These  women  will  drive  me  mad  I  believe. 
Let  that  box  alone,  you  rascal.  Lay  a  finger  on  that 
trumpery  there  I  say,  and  you'll  find  whose  orders  you 
are  under;  as  for  the  Colonel  and  his  lady,  they'll  get  a 
little  drink  out  of  the  first  puddle  we  come  to,  I  reckon. 

\^Goes  out. 

Miss  R.  {Coming  from  the  house.)  That  will  do. 
That  is  all, — in  the  green  wagon,  John 

SerH.  But  the  children 

Miss  R.  Don't  stand  there,  prating  to  me  at  a  time 
like  this.    Make  haste,  make  haste  ! 

How  perfectly  calm  I  am  !     I  would  never  have  be- 
lieved it ; — just  tie  this  string  for  me,  child,  my  hands 
twitch  so  strangely, — they  say  the  British  are  just  down 
in  the  lane  here,  with  five  thousand  Indians,  Annie. 
9 


X 


98  THEBRIDEOF 

Annie.  It  is  no  such  thing,  Aunt  Rachael.  The  Bri- 
tish are  quietly  encamped  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  j 
three  miles  off  at  least. 

Miss  R.  I  thought  as  much.  A  pretty  hour  for  us  to 
be  turned  out  of  house  and  home  to  be  sure.  Not  a  wink 
have  I  slept  this  blessed  night.  Hark  !  What  o'clock 
is  that  ?  George,  George  !  where  is  that  boy  ?  Just  run 
and  tell  your  mother,  Annie,  just  tell  her,  my  dear,  will 
you,  that  we  shall  all  be  murdered.  Maybe  she  will  make 
haste  a  little.     Well,  are  they  in  ? 

SerH.  The  pictures?  They  are  in, — yes'm.  But 
Miss  Kitty's  a  crying,  and  says  as  how  she  won't  go, 
and  there's  the  other  one  too ;  because,  Ma'a.m,  their  toes — 
you  see  there's  the  trunk  in  front  gives  'em  a  leetle  slope 
inward,  and  then  that  chest  under  the  seat — If  you 
would  just  step  down  and  see  yourself.  Ma'am. 

Miss  R.  I  desire  to  be  patient.  [  They  go  out. 

{Annie  sits  on  the  bench  of  the  little  Porch,  weeping. 
Mrs.  Gray  enters  from  within.) 

Annie.  Shall  I  never  walk  down  that  shady  path 
again?  Shall  I  enter  those  dear  rooms  no  more? 
There  are  voices  there  they  cannot  hear.  From  the  life 
of  buried  years,  ten  thousand  scenes,  all  vacancy  toother 
eyes,  enrich  those  walls  for  us;  the  furniture  that  money 
cannot  buy,  that  only  the  joy  and  grief  of  years  can  pur- 


FORTEDWARD.  99 

chase.     They  will  spoil  our  pleasant  home, — will  they 
not,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Pleasant,  ay,  pleasant  indeed,  has  it  been  to 
us.  Qod's  will  be  done.  Do  not  weep,  Annie.  We 
have  counted  the  cost ; — many  a  safe  and  happy  home 
there  will  be  in  the  days  to  come,  whose  light  shall  spring 
from  this  forgotten  sorrow.     God's  will  be  done. 

Annie.  Mother,  they  are  all  ready  now ;  is  Helen  in 
her  room  still? 

Mrs.  G.  Go  call  her,  Annie.  Hours  ago  it  was  I  sent 
her  there.  I  thought  she  might  get  some  little  sleep  ere 
the  summons  came.  Call  her,  my  child.  How  deadly 
pale  she  was!  [Annie  goes  in. 


DIALOGUE  III. 

Scene.  A  Chamber  'partly  darkened^  the  morning  air 
steals  faintly  through  the  half-open  shutters.  Helen 
before  the  mirror, leaning  upon  the  toilette,  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  her  long  hair  unbound,  and 
flowing  on  her  shoidders. 

{Annie  enters.) 

Annie.  Helen !     Why,  Helen,  are  you  asleep  there  ? 
Come,  we  are  going  now.     After  keeping  us  on  tiptoe 


100  THE     BRIDE     OF 

for  hours,  the  summons  has  come  at  last.    Indeed,  there 
is  hardly  time  for  you  to  dress.     Shall  I  help  you? 

Helen.  {Rising  slowly.)  God  help  me.  Bid  my 
mother  come  here,  Annie. 

Annie.  What  ails  you,  Helen? — there  is  no  time,— 
you  do  not  understand  me, — there  is  not  one  moment  to 
be  lost.    Let  me  wind  up  this  hair  for  you. 

Helen.  Let  go  !— Oh  God 

Annie.  Helen  Grey ! 

Helen.  It  was  a.  dream, — it  was  but  a  foolish  jream. 
It  must  noTlbe  thought  of  now, — it  will  never  do.  Bid 
my  mother  come  here,  I  am  ready  now. 

Annie.  Ready,  Helen ! — ready  ? — in  that  dressing- 
gown,  and  your  hair — see  here, — are  you  ready,  Helen  ? 

Helen.  Yes,— bid  her  come; 

Annie.  Heaven  only  knows  what  you  mean  with  this 
wild  talk  of  yours,  but  if  you  are  not  mad  indeed,  I  intreat 
you,  sister,  waste  no  more  of  this  precious  time. 

Helen.  No,  no, — we  must  not  indeed.  It  was  wrong, 
but  I  could  not — go, — make  haste,  bid  her  come. 

Annie.  She  is  crazed, certainly !  \^Goes  out. 

{Helen  stands  with  her  arms  folded^  and  her  eye  fix- 
ed on  the  door.) 
{Mrs.  Orey  enters.) 


FORT     EDWARD.  101 

Mrs.  G.  My  child !  Helen,  Helen  !  Why  do  you 
stand  there  thus  ? 

Helen.  Mother 

Mrs.  G.  Nay,  do  not  stay  to  speak.  There — throw 
this  mantle  around  you.  Where  is  your  hat  ? — not  here  ! 
— Bridal  gear ! 

(  George  enters.) 

George.  On  my  word !  Well,  well,  stand  there  a 
little  longer,  to  dress  those  pretty  curls  of  yours,  and 
— humph — there's  a  style  in  vogue  in  yonder  camp 
for  rebels  just  now;  we'll  all  stand  a  chance  to  try, 
I  think. 

Helen.  George  '.^George  Grey ! — Be  still, — be  still. — 
We  must  not  think  of  that.    It  was  a  dream. 

George.  Is  my  sister  mad  ? 

Helen.  Mother 

Mrs.  G.  Speak,  my  child. 

Helen.  Mother — my  blessed  mother, — {aside.)  'Tis 
but  a  brief  word, — it  will  be  over  soon. 

Mrs.  G.  Speak,  Helen. 
Helen.  I  cannot  go  with  you,  mother. 
Mrs.  G.  Helen  ? 
George.  Not  go  with  us  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Helen,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ? 
9* 


Wa  THE     BRIDE     OF 

George,  You  are  in  jest,  Helen  ;  or  else  you  are  mad, 
— before  another  sunset  the  British  army  will  be  encamp- 
ing here. 

Helen.  Hear  me,  mother.  A  message  from  the  Brit- 
ish camp  came  to  me  last  night, — 

Mrs.  G.  The  British  camp  ?— Ha !— ha !  Everard 
Maitland  !    God  forgive  him. 

Helen.  Do  not  speak  thus.  It  was  but  a  few  cold 
and  careless  lines  he  sent  me, — my  purpose  is  my  own. 

Mrs.  G.  And — what,  and  he  does  not  know  ? — Helen 
Grey,  this  passes  patience. 

Helen.  He  does.  Here  is  the  answer  that  has  just 
now  come ;  for  I  have  promised  to  meet  him  to-day  at 
the  hut  of  the  missionary  in  yonder  woods. — I  can 
hardly  spell  these  hasty  words  ;  but  this  I  know,  he  will 
surely  come  for  me, — though  he  bids  me  wait  until  I 
hear  his  signal, — so  I  cannot  go  with  you,  mother. 

Mrs.  G.  Where  will  you  go,  Helen? 

Helen.  Everard  is  in  yonder  camp ; — where  should  the 
wife's  home  be  ? 

Mrs.  G.  The  wife's  ? 

Helen.  These  two  years  1  have  been  his  bride ; — his 
wedded  wife  I  shall  be  to-day.  Yonder  dawns  my  bridal 
day. 


FORT     EDWARD.  jlOiJ 

George,  What  does  she  say  ?  What  does  Helen  say  ? 
I  do  not  understand  one  word  of  it. 

Mrs.  G.  She  says  she  will  go  to  the  British  camp. 
Desertions  thicken  upon  us.  Hark ! — they  are  calling 
us.  ^ 

George.  To  the  British  camp  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Go  down,  George,  go  down.  Your  sister 
talks  wildly  and  foolishly,  what  you  should  not  have 
heard,  what  she  will  be  sorry  for  anon ;  go  down,  and 
tell  them  they  must  wait  for  us  a  little, — we  will  be  there 
presently. 

George.  Hark!  {going  to  the  door.) — another  mes- 
sage. Do  you  hear  ? — Helen  may  be  ready  yet,  if  she 
will. 

Mrs.  G.  Blessed  delay !  Go  down,  George ;  say 
nothing  of  this.  There  is  time  yet.  Tell  them  we  will 
be  there  presently. 

(  George  goes  out.) 

Mrs.  G.  Did  you  think  I  should  leave  you  here  to  ac- 
complish this  frantic  scheme? — Did  you  dream  of  it,  and 
you  call  me  mother  1 — but  what  do  you  know  of  that 
name's  meaning  ?  Do  not  turn  away  from  me  thus,  my 
child  ;  do  not  stand  with  that  fixed  eye  as  rfiough  some 
phantom  divinity  were  there.  I  shall  not  leave  you  here, 
Helen,  never. 

Come,  come  ;  sit  down  with  me  in  this  pleasant  win- 


104  THE      BRIDE      OF 

dow,  there  is  time  yet, — let  us  look  at  this  moonlight 
scheme  of  yours  a  little.  Would  you  stay  here  in  this 
deserted  citadel,  alone  ?  My  child,  our  army  are  already 
on  their  march.  In  an  hour  more  you  would  be  the  only 
living  thing  in  all  this  solitude.  Would  you  stay  here 
alone,  to  meet  your  lover  too? — Bethink  yourself,  Helen. 

Helen.  This  Canadian  girl  will  stay  with  me,  and 

Mrs.  G.  A  girl! — Helen,  yesterday  an  army's 
strength,  the  armies  of  the  nation,  the  love  of  mother, 
and  brothers,  and  sisters,  all  seemed  nothing  for  protec- 
tion to  your  timid  and  foreboding  thought;  and  now, 
when  the  enemy  are  all  around  us, — do  you  talk  of  a 
single  girl?  Why,  the  spirit  of  some  strange  destiny  is 
struggling  with  your  nature,  and  speaks  within  you,  but 
we  will  not  yield  to  it. 

Helen.  You  have  spoken  truly,  mother.  There  is  one 
tie  in  these  hearts  of  ours,  whose  strength  makes  destiny, 
and  where  that  leads,  there  lie  those  iron  ways  that  are 
of  old  from  everlasting.  This  is  Heaven's  decree,  not 
mine.  , 

Mrs.  G'.  Do  not  charge  the  madness  of  this  frantic 
scheme  on  Heaven,  my  child. 

Helen.  Everard ! — no,  no.  I  cannot  show  to  another 
the  lightning  flash,  that  with  that  name  reveals  my  desti- 
ny^ _yet  the  falling  stone  might  as  soon  question  of  its 
way.    Renounce  him  ? — you  know  not  what  you  ask  1 


FORT    EDWARD.  105 

all  there  is  of  life  within  me  laughs  at  the  wild  impossi- 
bility. 

Mother,  hear  me.  There  is  no  danger  in  my  staying 
here, — none  real.  The  guard  still  keep  their  station  on 
yonder  hill,  and  the  fort  itself  will  not  be  wholly  aban- 
doned to-day.  Everard  will  come  for  me  at  noon. — It  is 
impossible  that  the  enemy  should  be  here  ere  then ;  nay, 
the  news  of  this  unlooked-for  movement  will  scarce  have 
reached  their  camp. — Real  danger  there  is  none,  and — 
Do  not  urge  me.  I  know  what  you  would  say  ;  the  bit- 
ter cost  I  have  counted  all,  already,  all — all.  That  Mait- 
iand  is  in  yonder  camp,  that — is  it  not  a  strange  blessed- 
ness which  can  sweeten  anguish  such  as  this? — that  he 
loves  me  still,  that  he  will  come  here  to-day  to  make  me 
his  forever, — this  is  all  that  I  can  say,  my  mother. 

Mrs.  G.  Will  you  go  over  to  the  British  side,  Helen  ? 
Will  you  go  over  to  the  side  of  wrong  and  oppression  ? 
WouI3"you  link  yourself  with  our  cruel  and  pursuing 
enemy  ?  Oh  no,  no  no,  —  that  could  not  be — never. 
Amid  the  world  of  fearful  thoughts  that  name  brings,  how 
could  we  place  your  image?  Oh  God,  I  did  not  count 
on  this.  I  knew  that  this  war  was  to  bring  us  toil,  and 
want,  and  fear,  and  haply  bloody  death  j  and  I  could  have 
borne  it  unmurmuringly ;  but — God  forgive  me, — that  the 
child  I  nursed  in  these  arms  should  forsake  me,  and  join 
with  our  deadly  foes  against  us  —  I  did  not  count  on 
this. 


106  THE     BRIDE     OF 

Helen.  Yes — that's  the  look, — the  very  look — all  night 
I  saw  it ;— it  does  not  move  me  now,  as  it  did  then.  It  is 
shadows  of  these  things  that  are  so  fearful,  for  with  the  real 
comes  the  unreckoned  power  of  suffering. 

Mother,  this  dark  coil  hath  Heaven  wound,  not  we. 
The  tie  which  makes  his  path  the  way  of  God  to  me, 
was  linked  ere  this  war  was,— and  war  cannot  undo  it 
now.  It  is  a  bitter  fate,  I  know,—  a  bitter  and  a  fearful 
one. 

Mrs.  G.  Ay,  ay, — thank  God !  You  had  forgotten, 
Helen,  that  in  that  army's  pay,  nay,  all  around  us  even  now 
are  hordes  and  legions. 

Helen.  I  know  it, — I  know  it  all.    I  do  indeed. 

Mrs.  G.  Helen,  will  you  place  yourself  defenceless 
amidst  that  savage  race,  whose  very  name  from  your 
childhood  upwards,  has  filled  you  with  such  strange  fear? 
Yesterday  I  chid  you  for  those  fancies, — I  was  wrong, — 
they  were  warnings,  heaven-sent,  to  save  you  from  this 
doom.     What  was  that  dream  you  talked  of  then  ? 

Helen.  Dreams  are  nothing.  Will  you  unsay  a  life's 
lessons  now  when  most  I  need  them  1 

Mrs.  G.  Yesterday,  all  day,  a  shadow  as  of  coming 
evil  lay  upon  me,  but  now  I  remember  the  forgotten  vi- 
sion whence  it  fell.  Yesternight  I  had  a  dream,  Helen, 
such  as  yours  might  be  j  for  in  my  broken  and  fevered 
slumbers,  wherever  I  turned,  one  vision  awaited  me. 
There  was  a  savage  arm,  and  over  it  fell  a  shower  of 


PORT    EDWARD.  107 

golden  hair,  and  ever  and  anon,  in  the  shadowy  light  of 
my  dream,  a  knife  glittered  and  waved  before  me.  We 
were  safe,  but  over  one, — some  young  and  innocent  and 
tender  one  it  was — there  hung  a  hopeless  and  inexorable  ^ 
fate.  Once  methought  it  seemed  the  young  English  girl 
that  was  wedded  here  last  winter,  and  once  she  turned 
her  eye  upon  me — Ha ! — I  had  forgotten  that  glance  of 
agony — surely,  Helen,  it  was  yours. 

Mrs.  G.  Helen!  my  child — (^Aside?)  There  it  is, 
that  same  curdling  glance, — 'twas  but  a  dream,  Helen. 
Why  do  you  stand  there  so  white  and  motionless — why 
do  you  look  on  me  with  that  fixed  and  darkening  eye?— 
'twas  but  a  dream ! 

Helen.  And  where  were  you? — tell  me  truly.  Was  it 
not  by  a  gurgling  fountain  among  the  pine  trees  there  ? 
and  was  it  not  noon-day  in  your  dream,  a  hot,  bright,  sul- 
try noon,  and  a  few  clouds  swelling  in  the  western  sky, 
and  nothing  but  the  trilling  locusts  astir  ? 

Mrs.  G.  How  wildly  you  talk  ;  how  should  I  remem- 
ber any  thing  like  this  ? 

Helen.  J  will  not  yield  to  it;  tempt  me  not.  'Tis  folly 
all,  I  know  it  is.  Danger  there  is  none.  Long  ere  yon- 
der hill  is  abandoned,  Everard  will  be  here ;  and  who 
knows  that  I  am  left  here  alone,  and  who  would  come 
here  to  seek  me  out  but  he  ?  Oh  no,  I  cannot  break 
this  solemn  faith  for  a  dream.     What  would  he  give  to   "^  (^'- 


108  THE     BRIDE     OP 

know  I  held  my  promise  and  his  love  lighter  than  a 
dream  ?    I  must  stay  here,  mother. 

Mrs.  G.  Noj  my  child.  Hear  me.  If  this  must  be  in- 
deed, if  all  my  holy  right  in  you  is  nothing,  if  you  will  in- 
deed go  over  to  our  cruel  enemy,  and  rejoice  in  our  sor- 
rows and  triumph  in  our  overthrow — 

Helen.  Hear  her — 

Mrs.  G.  Be  it  so,  Helen, — be  it  so  ;  but  for  all  that,  do 
not  stay  here  to-day.  Bear  but  a  little  longer  with  our 
wearisome  tenderness,  and  wait  for  some  safer  chance 
of  forsaking  us.     Come. 

Helen.  If  I  could— Ah,  if  I  could 

Mrs.  G.  You  can — you  will.  Here,  let  me  help  you. 
we  shall  be  ready  yet.  No  one  knows  of  this  wild 
scheme  but  your  brother  and  myself,  no  one  else  shall 
ever  know  it.    Come. 

Helen.  If  I  could.  'Tis  true,  I  did  not  know  when  I 
sent  him  this  promise  you  would  leave  me  alone  ere  the 
hour  should  come.  Perhaps — no,  it  would  never  do. 
When  he  comes  and  finds  that,  after  all,  I  have  deserted 
him,  once  with  a  word  I  angered  him,  and  for  years  it 
was  the  last  between  us  ; — and  what  safer  chance  will 
there  be  in  these  fearful  times  of  meeting  him  ?  No,  no. 
If  we  do  not  meet  now,  we  are  parted  for  ever; — if  I  do 
not  keep  my  promise  now,  I  shall  see  him  no  more. 


FORT     EDWARD.  109 

Mrs.  G,^  See  him  no  more  then.  What  is  he  to  us— 
this  stranger,  this  haughty,  all-requiring  one?  Think  of 
the  blessed  days  ere  he  had  crossed  our  threshold.  You 
have  counted  all,  Helen  ?  The  anguish  that  will  bring 
tears  into  your  proud  brother's  eyes,  your  sister's  com- 
fortless sorrow  ? — did  you  think  of  her  lonely  and  sad- 
dened youth  1  You  counted  the  wild  suffering  of  this 
bitter  moment, — did  you  think  of  the  weary  years,  the 
long  sleepless  nights  of  grief,  the  days  of  tears  j  did  you 
count  the  anguish  of  a  mother's  broken  heart,  Helen  ? 
God  only  can  count  that. 

You  did  not — there  come  the  blessed  tears  at  last. 
Here's  my  own  gentle  daughter,  once  again.  Come, 
Helen,  see,  they  are  waiting  for  us.  There  stands  the 
old  chaise  under  the  locust  tree.  You  and  I  will  ride 
together.  Come,  'tis  but  a  few  steps  down  that  shady 
path,  and  we  are  safe — a  few  steps  and  quickly  trod. 
Hark!  the  respite  is  past  even  now.  Do  you  stand 
there  marble  still  ?  Helen,  if  you  stay  here,  we  shall 
see  you  no  more.  This  lover  of  yours  hates  us  all.  He 
will  take  you  to  England  when  the  war  is  over  if  you 
outhve  its  bloody  hazards,  and  we  are  parted  for  ever. 
I  shall  see  you  no  more,  Helen,  my  child ;  my  child,  I  shall 
see  you  no  more.  {She  sinks  upon  the  chair,  and 
weeps  aloud.) 

Helen.  Has  it  come  to  this  1     Will  you  break  my 
heart  ?    If  it  were  continents  and  oceans  that  you  bade 
me  cross,  but  those  few  steps — Ah,  they  would  sever  me 
10 


110  THEBRIDEOP 

firam  him  far  ever,  and  I  cannot,  I  cannot,  I  cannot  take 
^em, — there  is  no  motion  so  impossible.  Yes,  they  are 
calling  us.    Do  not  stay. 

(Annie  enters). 

Annie,  Modier,  will  yon  tell  me  what  this  means  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  come  in.  We  will  waste  no  more  time 
about  it  She  will  stay  here  to  meet  her  lover,  she  wiQ 
forsake  ns  for  a  traitor.  We  haYe  nmsed  an  enemy 
among  us.  The  babe  I  cherished  in  this  bosom,  whose 
sleeping  face  I  watched  with  a  yomig  mother's  love, 
hath  become  my  enemy.    Oh  my  God — ^is  it  fiom  thee  ? 

Annie.  Helen!  my  sister!  Helen  ! 

Mrs.  G.  Ay,  look  at  her.  Would  you  think  that  the 
spirit  which  heares  in  that  light  frame,  and  glances  in 
those  soft  eyes,  held  such  cruel  power  1  Yesterday  I 
would  have  counted  it  a  breath  in  the  way  of  my  lightest 
purpose,  and  now— come  away,  Annie — it  is  vain,  you 
cannot  move  her. 

{George  enters.) 

George.  Mother,  if  Helen  will  not  go  now,  we  mtist 
leave  her  to  her  fate  or  share  it  with  her.  Every  wagon 
is  on  the  road  but  ours.  A  UtUe  more,  and  we  shall  be 
too  late  for  the  protection  of  the  army.  Shall  I  stay  with 
her? 

Mrs.  G.  No,  never.  That  were  a  sure  and  idle 
waste  of  life.    Helen,  perhaps,  may  be  safe  with  them. 


VOET    EDWARD.  Ill 

Oh  yes.  the  refogees  are  safe,  else  deseitiaii  wnnid  grow 
out  of  fashion  soon. 

Annie.  Refiigees!  Refugee!  Hden! 

Afrg.  G.  It  sounds  strange  fwone  of  ns  I  know.  Too 
will  grow  used  to  it  soon.  Helen  bdongs  to  the  Bdtiak 
side,  she  will  go  OTer  to  them  to-day,  hut  she  must  go 
alone,  for  none  of  us  would  be  safe  in  Brid^  hands,  at 
least  I  trust  so— this  morning's  experience  might  make 
me  doubtful,  but  I  trust  we  are  all  true  here  yet  beside. 

Annie.  Have  I  heard  aright,  Helen?— or  is  this  all 
some  fearful  dream  ?  Ton  and  I,  who  hare  Ured  to- 
gether all  the  years  of  our  lives,  to  be  parted  this  mmnent, 
and  for  ever, — no,  no ! 

{A  young  American  Officer  enters  hastily.) 

Capt.  Grey.  Softly,  sofdy  !  What  is  this?  Are  you  in 
this  conspiracy  to  di^iace  me,  mother  ?  Oh,  yery  wfSL ; 
if  you  have  all  decided  to  stay  hore,  PU  take  my  leave. 

Annie.  Oh,  Henry,  stay.  Tou  can  persuade  heritmmy 
be. 

Capt.  G.  Persuade!  What's  all  this!  A  goodly 
time  for  rhetoric  forsooth !  Who's  diis  that's  risking  all 
our  lives,  waiting  to  be  persuaded  now  ? 

Mrs.  G.  That  Tory,  Henry !  We  should  have  thought 
of  this.  Ah,  if  we  had  gone  yesterday, — that  haughty 
Maitland, — she  will  stay  here  to  meet  him !  She  will 
marry  him,  my  son. 


112  THE     BHIDE     OF 

Capt.  G,  Maitland  !~-and  stay  here ! 

Helen.  Dear  Henry,  let  us  part  in  kindness.  Do  not 
look  on  me  with  that  angry  eye.  It  was  I  that  played 
with  you  in  the  woods  and  meadows,  it  was  I  that 
roamed  with  you  in  those  autumn  twilights, — you  loTed 
me  then,  and  we  are  parting  for  ever  it  may  be. 

Capt.  G.  {To  the  children  at  the  door.)  Get  you 
down,  young  ones,  get  you  down.  Pray,  mother,  lead 
the  way,  will  you  ?~hreak  up  this  ring.  Come,  Helen, 
you  and  I  will  talk  of  this  as  we  go  on,  only  in  passing 
give  me  leave  to  say,  of  all  the  mad  pranks  of  your  novel 
ladies,  this  caps  the  chief  You  have  outdone  them, 
Helen ;  I'll  give  you  credit  for  it,  you  have  outdone  them 
all. 

Why  you'll  be  chronicled,— there's  nothing  on  record 
like  it,  that  ever  I  heard  of  j  I  am  well-read  in  romances 
too.  We'll  have  a  new  love-ballad  made  and  set  to  tune, 
under  the  head  of  "Love  and  Murder,"  it  will  come 
though,  if  you  don't  make  haste  a  little.    Come,  come. 

Helen.  Henry ! 

Capt.  G.  Are  you  in  earnest,  Helen?  Did  you  sup- 
pose that  we  were  mad  enough  to  leave  you  here? 
You'll  not  go  with  us  ?     But  you  uoitl^  by  Heaven  ! 

Helen.  Henry  !  Mother  ! — Nay,  Henry,  this  is  vain.  I 
shall  stay  here,  I  shall—/  shall  stay  here,—r-so  help  me 
Heaven. 


PORT     EDWARD.  113 

Capt.  G.  Helen  Grey !  Is  that  young  lioness  there 
my  sometime  sister  ? — my  delicate  sister? — with  her  foot 
planted  like  iron,  and  the  strength  of  twenty  men  nerv- 
ing her  arm? 

Helen.  Let  go. — I  shall  stay  here. 

Ca.'pt.  G.  Well,  have  your  way,  young  lady,  have  your 
way ;  but — Mother,  if  you  choose  to  leave  that  mad  girl 
here,  you  can, — but  as  for  this  same  Everard  Maitland, 
look  you,  my  lady,  if  I  don't  stab  him  to  his  heart's  core, 
never  trust  me. 

{He  goes  out — Mrs.  Grey  follows  Mm  to  the  door.) 

Mrs.  G.  Stay,  Henry, — stay.     What  shall  we  do  ? 

Capt.  G.  Do ! — Indeed,  a  straight  waistcoat  is  the 
only  remedy  I  know  of,  Madam,  for  such  freaks  as  these. 
If  you  say  so,  she  shall  go  with  us  yet, 

Mrs.  G.  Hear  me.  This  is  no  time  for  passion  now 
Hear  me,  Henry.  This  Maitland,  Tory  as  he  is,  is  her  be- 
trothed husband,  and  she  has  chosen  her  fate  with  him; 
we  cannot  keep  her  with  us ;  nay,  with  what  we  have 
now  seen,  it  would  be  vain  to  think  of  it,  to  wish  it  even. 
She  must  go  to  him, — it  but  remains  to  see  that  she  meets 
him  safely.  Noon  is  the  hour  appointed  for  his  coming. 
Could  we  not  stay  till  then  ? 

Capt.  G.  Impossible.    Noon?  —  well— Oh,  if  its  all 
fixed  upon  ; — if  you  have  settled  it  between  yourselves 
that  Helen  is  to  abandon   us   and  our  protection,  for 
10* 


114  THE     BRIDE      OP 

Everard  Maitland's  and  the  British,  the  sooner  done,  the 
better.  She's  quite  right,  —  she's  like  to  find  no  safer 
chance  for  it  than  this.  Noon, — there  is  a  picket  left  on 
yonder  hill  till  after  that  time,  certainly,  and  a  hundred 
men  or  so  in  the  fort.  I  might  give  Van  Vechten  a  hint 
of  it — nay,  I  can  return  myself  this  afternoon,  and  if  she 
is  not  gone  then,  I  will  take  it  upon  me  she  is  not  left  a 
second  time.  Of  course  Maitland  would  be  likely  to 
care  for  her  safety.  At  all  events  there's  nothing  else 
for  us  to  do,  at  least  there's  but  one  alternative,  and 
that  I  have  named  to  you.  [  They  go  out  together. 

Helen.  (She  has  stood  silently  watching  them.)  He 
has  gone,  without  one  parting  look — he  has  gone  !  So 
break  the  myriad-tied  loves,  it  hath  taken  a  life  to  weave. 
This  is  a  weary  world. 

{She  turns  to  her  sister^  who  leans  weeping  on  the  win- 
dow-seat.) 

Come,  Annie,  you  and  I  will  part  in  kindness,  will  we 
not  1  No  cruel  words  shall  there  be  here.  Pleasant  hath 
your  love  been  unto  me,  my  precious  sister.  FareweU, 
Annie. 

Annie.  Shall  I  never  hear  your  voice  again,  that 
hath  been  the  music  of  my  whole  life  ?  Is  your  face 
henceforth  to  be  tome  only  a  remembered  thing  ?  Helen, 
you  must  not  stay  here.  The  Indians, — it  was  no  idle 
fear,  the  half  of  their  bloody  outrages  you  have  not  heard  ; 
they  will  murder  you,  yes,  you.    The  innocence  and  love- 


FORT     EDWARD.  115 

liness  that  is  holy  to  us,  is  nothing  in  their  eyes,  they 
would  as  soon  sever  that  beautiful  hair  from  your  brow— 

He^en.  Hush,  hush.  There  is  no  danger,  Annie.  The 
dark  things  of  destiny  are  God's ;  the  heart,  the  heart 
only,  is  ours. 

(Mrs.  Grey  re-enters.) 

Mrs.  G.  (to  Annie.)  Come,  come,  my  child.  This  is 
foolish  now.  All  is  ready.  Janette  will  st^y  with  you, 
Helen. 

{Laughing voices areheardwithout^ and  the  children's 
faces  are  seen  peeping  in  the  door.) 

Willy.  Dear  mother,  are  you  not  ready  yet  ?  We  have 
been  in  the  wagon  and  out  a  hundred  times.  Oh,  Helen, 
make  haste.  The  sun  is  above  the  trees,  and  the  grass 
on  the  roadside  is  all  full  of  diamonds.  The  last  sol- 
diers are  winding  down  the  hollow  now.  Is  not  Helen 
going,  Mother  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Your  sister  Helen  is  going  from  us'jforever. 
Come  in  and  kiss  her  once,  and  then  make  haste — you 
must  not  all  be  lost. 

( They  enter.) 

Willy.  Ah,  why  don't  you  go  with  us,  sister  t — Such 
a  beautiful  ride  we  shall  have.  You  never  heard  such  a 
bird-singing  in  all  your  life. 

Frank.  We  shall  go  by  the  Chesnut  Hollow,  George 


y 


116  THEBRIDEOF 

says  we  shall.  Smell  of  these  roses,  Helen.  Must  she 
stay  here  ?  Hark,  Willy,  there's  the  drum.  Good-bye. 
How  sorry  I  am  you  will  not  go  with  us. 

Willy.  So  am  I.  What  makes  you  stand  so  still  and 
look  at  us  so  ?  Why  don't  you  kiss  me  ?  Good-bye,  Helen. 

Helen.  (Embracing  them  silently.) 

Annie.  Will  you  leave  her  here  alone,  mother?  Will 
you? 

Mrs.  G.  No.  There  is  a  guard  left  on  ypnder  hill, 
and  the  fort  is  not  yet  abandoned  wholly.  Besides,  the 
army  encamp  at  the  creek,  and  Henry  himself  will 
return  this  afternoon.  She  will  be  gone  ere  then, 
though. 

Helen.  Those  merry  steps  and  voices,  those  little,  soft 
clinging  hands  and  rosy  lips,  have  vanished  forever.  For 
all  my  love  I  shall  be  to  them  but  as  the  faint  trace  of 
some  faded  dream.     This  is  a  weary  world. 

Come,  George,  farewell.  How  I  have  loved  to  look  on 
that  young  brow.  Be  what  my  dreams  have  made  you. 
Fare  you  well. 

George.  Farewell,  Helen.  \He  goes  out  hastily. 

Helen.  Will  he  forget  me  ? 

Mrs.  G.  And  farewell,  Helen.     Fare  ye  well. 

Helen.  Will  she  leave  me  thus  ? 


rORT     EDWARD.  117 

Mrs.  G.  Do  not  go  to  the  hut — do  not  leave  this  door 
until  you  are  sure  of  the  signal  you  spoke  of,  Helen. 

Helen.  She  will  not  look  at  me. — Mother  ! 

Mrs.  G.  Farewell,  Helen ;  may  the  hour  never  come 
when  you  need  the  love  you  have  cast  from  you  now  so 
freely. 

Helen.  Will  you  leave  me  thus  ?  Is  not  our  life  toge- 
ther ending  here  ?  In  that  great  and  solemn  Hereafter 
our  ways  may  meet  again ;  but  by  the  light  of  sun,  or 
moon,  or  candle,  or  underneath  these  Heavens,  no  more. 
Oh !  lovely,  lovely  have  you  been  unto  me,  a  spirit  of 
holiness  and  beauty,  building  all  my  way. — Part  we 
thus? 

Mrs.  G.  Farewell,  Helen. 

Helen.  Part  we  thus  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Fare  ye  well,  Helen  Grey,  my  own  sweet 
and  precious  child,  my  own  lovely,  lovely  daughter,  fare 
ye  well,  and  the  Lord  be  with  you.  The  Lord  keep  you, 
for  I  can  keep  you  now  no  more.  The  Lord  watch  over 
you,  my  helpless  one,  mine,  mine,  mine,  all  mine,  though 
I  leave  you  thus ;  my  world  of  untold  wealth,  unto  ano- 
ther. Nay,  do  not  sorrow,  my  blessed  child, — you  will 
be  happy  yet.  Fear  nothing, — if  this  must  be,  I  say,  fear 
nothing.  You  think  that  you  are  doing  right  in  forsak- 
ing us  thus ; — it  may  be  that  you  are.  If  in  the  strength 
of  a  pure  conscience  you  stay  here  to-day, — be  not  afraid- 


118  THE     BRIDE     OF 

When  you  lay  here  of  old,  a  lisping  babe,  I  told  you  of 
One  whose  love  was  better  than  a  mother's.  Now  fare- 
well, and  trust  in  Him.  Farewell,  mine  eye  shall  see  thee 
yet  again.    Farewell. 

Helen.  No,  no ;  leave  me  not. 

Mrs.  G.  Unclasp  these  hands,  I  cannot  stay. 

Helen.  Never — never. 

Mrs  G.  Untwine  this  wild  embrace,  or,  even  now, — 
even  now 

Helen.  Farewell,  mother.    Annie  Grey,  farewell. 

IThey  go. 

Helen.  This  is  a  weary  world.  Take  me  home.  To 
the  land  where  there  is  no  crying  or  bitterness,  take  me, 
home. 

( The  noise  of  retreating  steps  is  heard,  and  the  sound 
of  the  outer  door  closing  heavily.) 

Helen.  They  are  gone, — not  to  church, — not  for  the 
summer's  ride.  I  shall  see  them  no  more. — In  heaven 
it  may  be ;  but  by  the  twilight  hearth,  or  merry  table,  at 
morn,  or  noon,or  evening,  in  mirth  or  earthly  tenderness, 
no  more. 

Hark  !  There  it  is  ! — that  voice, — I  hear  it  now,  I  do. 
A  dark  eternity  had  rolled  between  us,  and  I  hear  it  yet 
again.  They  are  going  now.  Those  rolling  wheels,  oh 
that  that  sound  would  last.     There  is  no  music  half  so 


FORT     EDWARD.  119 

sweet.    Fainter — fainter — it  is  gone — no — that  was  but 

the  hollow. — Hark 

Now  they  are  gone,  indeed.   So  breaks  the  sense's  last 
link  between  me  and  that  world. 


PART  FIFTtt 


iFwaii'aaiMiiis3''iP- 


DIALOGUE  I. 

Scene.     The  hill.    A  young  Soldier  enters. 

How  gloriously,  with  what  a  lonely  majesty  themorn-* 
ing  wastes  in  that  silent  valley  there ;  with  its  moving 
shadows,  and  breeze  and  sunshine,  and  its  thousand  de- 
licious sounds  mocking  those  desolate  homes 

{He  stops  suddenly,  and  looks  earnestly  into  the 
thicket.) 

This  is  strange,  indeed.  This  feeling  that  I  cannot 
analyze,  still  grows  upon  me.  Presentiment  ?  Some 
dark,  swift-flying  thought,  leaves  its  trace,  and  the  cause- 


PORT     EDWARD.  121 

seeking  mind,  in  the  range  of  its  own  vision  finding  none, 
looks  to  the  shadowy  future  for  it.  [^He  passes  on. 

{Two  Indian  Chiefs^  in  their  war-dress,  em,erge  from 
the  thickfit,  talking  in  suppressed  tones.) 

1st  Chief.  Hoogh  !  Hoogh  !  Alaska  fights  to  revenge 
his  son, — we  spill  our  blojd  to  revenge  his  son.  and  he 
thinks  to  win  gifts  besides.  Hugh!  A  brave  chief  he  is ! 

2nd  C.'iief.  Your  talk  is  not  good,  Manida.  They  are 
our  enemiei, — we  shall  conquer  them,  we  shall  see  their 
chestnut  locks  waving  aloft,  we  shall  dance  and  shout 
all  night  around  them,  and  the  eyes  of  the  maidens  shall 
meet  ours  in  the  merry  ring,  sparkling  with  joy,  as  we 
shout  "  Victory  !  victory  !  our  enemies  are  slain, — our 
foot  is  on  their  necks,  we  have  slain  our  enemies  !"  What 
more,  Manida  ?     Is  it  not  enough  ? 

1st  Chief.  No.  I  went  last  night  with  Alaska  to  the 
camp  above,  to  the  tent  of  the  young  sachem  of  the  lake, 
and  he  promised  hi.n  presents,  rich  and  many,  for  an  er- 
rand that  a  boy  might  do.  I  asked  Alaska  to  send  me  for 
him,  and  he  vvould  not. 

2nd  Chief.  The  young  white  sachem  was  Alaska's 
friend,  many  maonsago,  when  Alaska  was  wounded  and        V\cOL4^ 
sick. — He  must  revenge  young  Siganaw,  but  he  must 
keep  his  faith  to  his  white  friend,  too. 

1st  Chitf.  Ah,  but  I  know  where  the  horse  is  hidden 
and  the  paper.    When  the  tomahawks  flash  here,  and 
11 


USi  THE     BRIDE    OP 

the  war-cry  is  loudest,  we  will  steal  away.    Come,  and  I 
will  share  the  prize  with  you. 

2nd  Chief.  No,  I  will  tell  my  brother  chief  that  Mani- 
da  IS  a  treacherous  friend. 

1st  Chief.  You  cannot.  It  is  too  late.  Hist!  duick, 
lower — lower —  [  They  crouch  among  the  trees. 

(Another  Soldier  emerges  Jrom  the  wood-path,  sing- 
ing,) 
''  Then  march  to  the  roll  oj  the  drum. 

It  summons  the  brave  to  the  plain, 
Where  heroes  contend  for  the  home 
Which  perchance  they  may  ne^er  see  again.^^ 

{Pausing  abruptly.)  Well,  we  are  finely  manned 
here! 

{1st  Soldier  re-enters.) 

2nd  Sol.  How  many  men  do  you  think  we  have  in  all, 
upon  this  hill,  Edward  ? 

Isi  Sol.  Hist ! — more  than  you  count  on,  perhaps. 

2nd  Sol.  Why  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  do  you 
look  among  those  bushes  so  earnestly  ? 

Ist  Student.  It  is  singular,  indeed.  I  can  hardly  tell 
you  what  it  is,  but  twice  before  in  my  round,  precisely 
in  this  same  spot,  the  same  impression  has  flashed  upon 
me,  though  the  sense  that  gives  it,  if  sense  it  is,  will  not 
bide  an  instant's  questioning.  There!  Hist!  Did 
nothing  move  there  then  ? 


PORT     EDWARD.  123 

2nd  Sol.  I  see  nothing.  This  comes  of  star-gazing, 
when  you  should  have  slept.  Though  as  to  that,  I  have 
nothing  to  complain  of,  certainly.  1  had  to  thank  your 
taste  that  way,  last  night,  for  an  hour  of  the  most  deli- 
cious slumber.  It  was  like  that  we  used  to  snatch  of 
old,  between  the  first  stroke  of  the  prayer-bell  and  its  dy- 
ing peal. 

1st  Sol.  I  am  glad  you  could  sleep.  For  myself,  such 
a  world  of  troubled  thoughts  haunted  me,  I  found  more 
repose  in  waking. 

2nd  Sol.  Then  I  wish  you  could  have  shared  my 
dream  with  me,  as  indeed  you  seemed  to,  for  you  were 
with  me  through  it  all.  A  blessed  dream  it  was,  and 
yet — 

1st  Sol.  Well,  let  me  share  it  with  you  now. 

2nd  Sof.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  was,  that  in  honor 
and  good  conscience  we  had  effected  it,  but  somehow, 
methought  our  part  in  this  sickening  warfare  was  ac^ 
complished,  and  we  were  home  again.  Oh  the  joy  of 
it!  oh  the  joy  of  it!  Even  amid  my  dream,  methought 
we  questioned  its  reality,  so  unearthly  in  its  perfectness, 
it  seemed.  We  stood  upon  the  college-green,  and  the 
sun  was  going  down  with  a  strange,  darkling  splendor ; 
and  from  afar,  ever  and  anon  came  the  thunder  roll  of 
battle ;  but  we  had  nought  to  do  with  it ;  our  part  was 
dpne ;  our  time  was  out ;  we  were  to  fight  no  more.  And 
there  we  stood,  watching  the  students'  games  j  and  there 


124  THE     BRIDE      OF 

too  was  poor  Hale^  merry  and  full  of  life  as  e'er  he  was, 
for  never  a  thought  of  his  cruel  fate  crossed  my  dream. 
Suddenly  we  saw  two  ladies,  arm  in  arm,  come  swiftly 
down  the  shady  street,  most  strangely  beautiful  and 
strangely  clad ;  with  long  white  robes,  and  garlands  in 
their  hair,  and  such  a  clear  and  silvery  laugh,  and  some- 
thing fearful  in  their  loveliness  withal ;  and  one  of  them, 
as  she  came  smiling  toward  us — do  you  remember  that 
bright,  fair-haired  girl  we  met  in  yonder  lane  one  noon  ? 
— Just  such  a  smile  as  hers  wore  the  lady  in  my  dream. 
Then,  into  the  old  chapel  we  were  crowding  all ;  that 
long-deferred  commencement  had  come  on  at  last;  we 
stood  upon  a  stage,  and  a  strange  light  filled  all  the 
house,  and  suddenly  the  ceiling  swelled  unto  the  skiey 
dome,  and  nations  filled  the  galleries  ;  and  I  woke,  to  find 
myself  upon  a  soldier's  couch,  and  the  reveille  beating. 

Ist  Sol,  Well,  if  it  cheered  you,  'twas  a  good  dream 
most  certainly,  though,  yet — the  dream-books  might  not 
tell  you  so.     Will  you  take  this  glass  a  moment? 

2nd  Sol.  What  is  it? 

1st  Sol.  That  white  house  by  the  orchard,  in  the  door 
— do  you  see  nothing  ? 

2nd  Sol.  Yes,  a  figure,  certainly; — yes,  now  it  moves. 
I  had  thought  those  houses  were  deserted, — it  is  time 
they  were  I  think,  for  all  the  protection  we  can  give 
them.  How  long  shall  we  maintain  this  post^  think  you, 
with  such  a  handful  ? 


PORT    EDWARD.  125 

1st  Sol.  Till  the  preparations  below  are  complete,  I 
trust  so  at  least,  for  we  have  watchers  in  these  woods,  no 
donbt,  who  would  speedily  report  our  absence. 

2nd  Sol.  Well,  if  we  all  see  yonder  sun  go  down,  'tis 
more  than  I  count  on. 

1st  Sol.  A  chance  if  we  do— a  chance  if  we  do.  Will 

the  hoiK  corae^  when  this  infant  nation_shaU  forget  her 

(bloody  baptism? — the  holy  name  of  truth  and  freedom, 

_thaj  with  our  hearts'  blood  we  seal  upon  her  in  these  days 

of  fear? 

2nd  Sol.  Ay,  that  hour  may  come. 

1st  Sol.  TJien,  with  tears,  and  blood  if  need  be,  shall 
she  learn  it  anew;  and  not  in  vain  shall  the  bones  oFthe 
martyrs  moulder  in  her  peopled  vaTesi  T*or"human  na- 
ture, in  her  loftiest  mood,  was  this  beautiful  land  of  old 
built,  and  for  ages  hid.  Here — her  cradle-dreams  be- 
hind her  flung;  here,  on  the  height  of  ages  past, 
her  solemn  eye  down  their  long  vistas  turned,  in  a 
new  and  nobler  life  she  shall  arise  here.  Ah,  who  knows 
but  that  the  book  of  History  may  show  us  at  last  on  its 
lonj-marred  page — Man  himself, ^-no  longer  the  partial 
and  deformed  developments  of  his' nature,^ which  each 
successive  age  hath  left  as  if  iri  mockery  of  its  ideal, — 
bu^,  man  himself,  the  creature  of  thought, — the  high,  '•aim, 
majestic  being,  that  of  old  stood  unshrinking  beneath 
his  Maker's  gaze.  Even,  as  first  he  woke  amid  the  gar- 
11* 


126  THE     BRIDE     OF 

dens  of  the  East,  in  this  far  western  clime  at  lasthe  shall 
Sjmile  again, — a  perfect  thing. 

2nd  Sol.  In  your  earnestness,  you  do  not  mark  these 
strange  sounds,  Edward.  Listen.  {He  grasps  his 
sword.) 

(A  Soldier  rushes  down  the  path.) 

3d  Sol.  We  are  surrounded  !  Fly.  The  Indians  are 
upon  us.    Fly.  {^Rushes  on. 

{Another  Soldier  hursts  from  the  woods.) 

ith  Sol.  God  !  They  are  butchering  them  above  there, 
do  not  stand  here!  [Bushes  down  the  hill. 

2nd  Sol.  Resistance  is  vain.  Hear  those  shrieks ! 
There  is  death  in  them.    Resistance  is  vain. 

1st  Sol.  Flight  is  vain.  Look  yonder !  Francis, — 
the  dark  hour  hath  come! 

2nd  Sol.  Is  it  so  7  Mother  and  sister  I  shall  see  no 
more. 

(A  number  of  Indians,  disfigured  with  paint  and  bloody' 
and  brandishing  their  knives,  come  rushing  down 
the  road,  uttering  short,  fierce  yells.  Others  from 
below,  bringing  back  the  fugitives.) 

\st  Sol.  We  shall  die  together.  God  of  Truth  and 
Freedom,  unto  thee  our  youthful  spirits  trust  we. 

{The  Indians  surround  them.    Fighting  to  the  lastj 
they  fall.) 


PORT    EDWARD.  127 


DIALOGUE  II. 

Scene.  The  deserted  house — the  chamber — Helen  by 
the  table — her  head  bowed  and  motionless.  She 
rises  slowly  from,  her  drooping  posture. 

Helen.  It  is  my  bridal  day.  I  had  forgotten  that. 
(^Looking  from  the  windoio.)  Is  this  real?  Am  I  here 
alone  ?  My  mother  gone  ?  The  army  gone  ?  brothers 
and  sisters  gone,  and  those  woods  full  of  armed  Indians? 
I  am  awake.  This  is  not  the  light  of  dreams, — 'tis  the 
sun  that's  shining  there.  Not  the  fresh  and  tender  morn- 
ing sun,  that  looked  in  on  that  parting.  Hours  he  has 
climbed  since  then,  to  turn  those  shadows  thus,— hours  that 
tome  were  nothing. — Alone? — deserted — defenceless? 
Of  my  own  will  too?  There  was  a  laiD  in  that  will, 
though,  was  there  not?  (Tiirning  suddenly  from,  the 
window.)  Shall  I  see  him  again?  The  living  real  of 
my  thousand  dreams,  in  the  light  of  life,  will  he  stand 
here  to-day  ? — to-day?  No,  no.  Is  this  swift  flow  of 
being  leading  on  to  that?  Oh  day  of  anguish,  if  in 
thine  awful  bosom,  still,  that  dazzling  instant  sleeps,  I 
can  forgive  the  rest. 

{She  stands  by  the  toilette,  and  begins  to  gather  once 
more  the  long  hair  from  her  shoulders.    Suddenly 


128  THE     BRIDE     OP 

a  loiD  voice  at  the  door  breaks  the  stillness.     The 
Canadian  servant  looks  in.) 

Jan.  I  ask  your  pardon— Shall  I  come  injMa'amselle  7 

Helen.  Ay,  ay,  come  in.  How  strangely  any  voice 
sounds  amid  this  loneliness.    I  am  glad  you  are  here. 

Jan.  {Entering.)  Beautiful!  Santa  Maria  I  How 
beautiful!  May  I  look  at  these  things,  Ma'amselle? 
(Stopping  by  the  couch  strewn  with  bridal  gear.)  Real 
Brussels  !  And  the  plume  in  this  bonnet,  was  there  ever 
such  a  lovely  droop  ? 

Helen.  Come,  fasten  this  clasp  for  me,  Netty.  I  thought 
to  have  had  another  bridesmaid  once,  but — that  is  past — 
Yes,  I  am  a  bride  to-day,  and  I  must  not  wait  here  una- 
dorned. (Aside.)  He  shall  have  no  hint  from  me  this 
day  of  "  altered  fortunes.''''  As  though  these  weary 
years  had  been  but  last  night's  dream,  and  my  wedding- 
day  had  come  as  it  was  fixed,  so  will  I  meet  him. — ^Yet 
I  thought  to  have  worn  my  shroud  sooner  than  this 
robfi.^ 

Jan.  This  silk  would  stand  alone,  Ma'amselle, — and 
what  a  lovely  white  it  is  !  Just  such  a  bodice  as  this 
I  saw  my  Lady  Mary  wear,  two  years  ago  this  summer, 
in  Quebec  j  only,  this  is  a  thought  deeper.  But,  Santa 
Maria !  how  it  becomes  a  shape  like  yours  ! 

Helen.  What  a  world  of  buried  feeling  lives  again  as 


PORT     EDWARD.  129 

I  feel  the  clasp  of  this  robe  once  more  !     Will  he  say 
these  years  have  changed  me  ? 

Jan.  {Aside.')  I  do  not  like  that  altered  mien.  How 
the  beauty  flashes  from  her  ?  Is  it  silk  and  lace  that  can 
change  one  sol  Here  are  bracelets  too,  Ma'amselle  ; 
will  you  wear  them  1 

Helen.  Yes.  Go,  look  from  the  window,  Janette, 
down  the  lane  to  the  woods.  I  am  well-nigh  ready  now. 
He  will  come, — yes,  he  will  come. 

{Janette  retreats  to  the  window^ — her  eye  still  follow-' 
ing  the  lady.) 

Jan.  I  have  seen  brides  before,  but  never  so  gay  a  one 
as  this.  It  is  strange  and  fearful  to  see  her  stand  here 
alone,  in  this  lonesome  house,  all  in  glistening  white, 
smiling,  and  the  light  flashing  from  her  eyes  thus.  She 
looks  too  much  like  some  radiant  creature  from  another 
world,  to  be  long  for  this. 

Helen.  He  will  come,  why  should  he  not  ?  Netty,  fix 
your  eye  on  that  opening  in  the  woods,  and  if  you  see 
but  a  shadow  crossing  it,  tell  me  quickly. 

Jan.  I  can  see  nothing — nothing  at  all.  Marie  sanctis- 
sima !— how  quiet  it  is  !  The  shadows  are  straight  here 
now,  Miss  Helen. 

Helen.  Noon — the  very  hour  has  come !  Another 
minute  it  may  be.— Noon,  you  said,  Netty  ? 

{Joining  Janette  at  the  window.) 


130  THE     BRIDE     OF 

Jan.  YeSj  quite — you  can  see ;  and  hark,  there's  the 
clock.  Ohj  isn't  it  lonesome  though  7  See  how  like  the 
Sunday  those  houses  look,  with  the  doors  all  closed  and 
the  yards  and  gardens  still  as  midnight.  If  we  could  but 
hear  a  human  voice  ! — whose,  I  would  not  care. 

Helen.  How  like  any  other  noon-day  it  comes  !  The 
faint  breeze  plays  in  those  giaceful  boughs  as  it  did  yes- 
terday ;  that  little,  yellow  butterfly  glides  on  its  noiseless 
way  above  the  grass,  as  then  it  did  j — just  so,  the  sha- 
dows sleep  on  the  grassy  road-side  there ; — yes,  Netty, 
yes,  His  very  lonely. — Hear  those  merry  birds ! 

Jan.  But  I  would  rather  hear  that  signal,  Miss  Helen, 
a  thousand  times,  than  the  best  music  that  ever  was 
played. 

Helen.  I  shall  see  him  again.  That  wild  hope  is  wild 
no  longer.  To  doubt  were  wilder  now.  Ay,  Fate  must 
cross  my  way  with  a  bold  hand,  to  snatch  that  good  from 
me  now.  And  yet, — alas,  in  the  shadowy  future  it  lieth 
still,  and  a  dark  and  treacherous  realm  is  that  !  The  joys 
that  blossom  on  its  threshold  are  not  ours — It  may  be,  even 
now,  d  akn  ss  and  silence  everlasting  lie  between  us. 

Jan,  Hark — Hark  ! 

Helen.  What  is  it? 

Jan.  Hark !— There  ! — Do  you  hear  nothing  1 

Helen.  Distant  voices  ? 

Jan.  Yes-" 


PORT     EDWARD.  131 


Helen.  I  do-^ 


Jan.  Once  before, — 'twas  when  I  stood  in  the  door  be- 
low, I  heard  something  like  this ;  but  the  breeze  just  then 
brought  the  sound  of  the  fall  nearer,  and  drowned  it. 
There  it  is ! — Nearer.     The  other  window.  Miss  Helen. 

Helen.  From  that  hill  it  comes,  does  it  not  ? 

Jan.  Yes— yes,  I  should  think  it  did.  Oh  yes.  There 
is  a  guard  left  there— I  had  forgotten  that.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
How  white  your  lips  are  !    Are  you  afraid,  Ma'amselle  ? 

(Helen  stands  gazing  silently  from  the  window.) 

Jan.  There  is  no  danger.  It  must  have  been  thos6 
soldiers  that  we  heard, — or  the  cry  of  some  wild  animal 
roaming  through  yonder  woods — it  might  have  been, — 
how  many  strange  sounds  we  hear  from  them.  At  ano- 
ther time  we  should  never  have  thought  of  it.  I  think 
we  should  have  heard  that  signal  though,  ere  this, — I  do, 
indeed. 

Helen.  What  is  it  to  die?  Nor  wood  nor  meadow,  nor 
winding  stream,  nor  the  blue  sky,do  they  see ;  nor  the  voice 
of  bird  or  insect  do  they  hear;  nor  breeze,  nor  sunshine, 
nor  fragrance  visits  them.  Will  there  be  nothing  left  that 
makes  this  being  then  1  The  high.  Godlike  purpose — 
the  life  whose  breath  it  is,— can  thai  die  ?— the  meek 
trust  in  Goodness  Infinite, — can  that  perish?  No. — This 
is  that  building  t)f  the  soul  which  nothing  can  dissolve, 
that  house  eternal,  that  eternity's  wide  tempests  cannot 
move.  No — no — I  a  m  not  afraid.  No--Netty,  I  am  not 
afraid. 


132 


THE     BRIDE     OP 


Jan.  Will  you  come  here,  Miss  Helen "? 
Helen.  WeU. 

Jan.  Look  among  those  trees  by  the  road-side— those 
pine  trees,  on  the  ^ide  of  the  hill,  where  my  finger 
points. — 

Helen.  Well-^what  is  it  ? 

Jan.  Do  you  see — what  a  blinding  sunshine  this  is — 
do  you  see  something  movins:  there  ? — wait  a  moment — 
— they  are  hid  among  the  trees  now — you  will  see  them 
again  presently—There!— there  they  come,  a  troop  of  them, 
see. 

Helen.  Yes— Indians — are  they  not? 

Jan.  Ay — it  must  have  been  their  yelling  that 
we  heard. — We  need  not  be  alarmed. — They  are  from 
the  camp — they  have  come  to  that  spring  for  water.  The 
wonder  is,  your  soldiers  should  have  let  them  pass. — 
You  will  see  them  turning  back  directly  now. 

Helen.  (Turning  from  the  window.)  Shelter  us — all 
power  is  thine. 

Jan.  Holy  Virgin  ! — they  are  coming  this  way.  Those 
creatures  are  coming  down  that  hill,  as  I  live.  Yes, 
there  they  come. 

This  strip  of  wood  hides  them  now.  What  keeps 
them  there  so  long?  Ay,  ay.— I  see  now — I  am  sorry  I 
should  have  alarmed  you  sOj  Ma'amselle,  for  nothing  too 


FORT     EDWARD,  133 

' — They  have  struck  into  those  woods  again,  no  doubt ; 
they  are  going  back  to  their  camp  by  the  lower  route. 

Helen.  No. 

Jan.  It  must  be  so.  There  is  no  doabt  of  it.  Indeed, 
we  might  be  sure  they  would  never  dare  come  here. — 
They  cannot  know  yet  that  your  array  are  gone.  Be- 
sides, we  should  have  heard  from  them  ere  this.  They 
could  never  have  kept  their  horrid  tongues  to  them- 
selves so  long,  I  know. — Well,  if  it  were  to  save  me,  I 
cannot  screw  myself  into  this  shape  any  longer.  {Rising 
from  the  window.) 

Helen.  Listen. 

Jan.  'Tis  nothing  but  the  sound  of  the  river.  You 
can  make  nothing  else  of  it,  Ma'amselle, — unless  it  is 
these  locusts  that  you  hear.  I  wish  they  would  cease 
their  everlasting  din  a  moment. 

How  that  breeze  has  died  away  !  Every  leaf  is  still 
now !     There's  not  a  cloud  or  a  speck  in  all  the  sky» 

Helen.  Look  in  the  west — have  you  looked  there  t 

Jan.  Yes,  there  are  a  few  little  clouds  beginning  to 
gather  there  indeed.  We  shall  have  a  shower  yet  ere 
night. 

{The  xoar-xohoop  13  heard,  loud  and  near.) 
Jan.  Mon  Dieu  !     Here  they  are !     It  is  all  over  with 
us !     We  shall  be  murdered ! 

{She  clasps  her  hands j  and  shrieks  wildly. 
12 


134  THE     BRIDE     OF 

Helen.  Hush!  hush!  Put  down  that  window,  and 
come  away.     We  must  be  calm  now. 

Jan.  It  is  all  over  with  us, — what  use  is  there  ?  Do 
you  hear  that  trampling  ? — in  the  street ! — they  are 
coming ! 

Helen.  Janette — Hear  me.  Will  you  throw  away 
your  life  and  mine?  For  shame!  Be  calm.  These 
Indians  cannot  know  that  we  are  here.  They  will  see 
these  houses  all  deserted.  Why  should  they  stop  to 
search  this  ?    Hush  !  hush  !  they  are  passing  now. 

Jan.  They  have  stopped  ! — the  trampling  has  stop- 
ped ! — I  hear  the  gate, — they  have  come  into  the  yard. 

{A  long  wild  yell  is  heard  under  the  window.  They 
standj  looking  silently  at  each  other.  Again  it 
trembles  through  the  room^  louder  than  before.) 

Helen.  I  am  sorry  you  stayed  here  with  me.  Perhaps 
—Hark  !  What  was  that?  What  was  that?  Was  it 
not  Maitland  they  said  then?  It  was — it  is — Don't 
grasp  me  so. 

Jan,  Nay — what  would  you  do? 

Helen.  I  must  speak  with  them.  Let  go  my  arm !  Do 
you  not  hear  ?  'Tis  Maitland  they  are  talking  of.  How 
strangely  that  blessed  name  sounds  in  those  tones ! 

Jan.  You  must  not — we  have  tempted  Heaven  al- 
ready— this  is  madness. 


PORT     EDWARD.  135 

Helen,  Let  go,  Janette.  It  is  not  you  tkey  seek.  You 
can  conceal  yourself.    You  shall  be  safe. 

Jan.  She  is  wild !  Nay,  I  was  mad  myself,  or  I  should 
never  have  stayed  here.  It  were  better  to  have  lived 
always  with  them,  than  to  be  murdered  thus. 

{Helen  opens  the  window,  and  stands  for  a  moment^ 
looking  silently  down  into  the  court.  She  turns 
away,  shuddering.) 

Helen.  Can  t  meet  those  eyes  again  ? 

{Again  the  name  of  Maitland  mingles  with  the  wild 
and  unintelligible  sounds  that  rise  from  without.) 

Helen.  Can  I?  (She  turns  to  the  window.)  What 
can  it  mean  ?  His  own  beautiful  steed  !  How  fiercely 
he  prances  beneath  that  unskilful  rein.  Where's  your 
master,  Selma,  that  he  leaves  me  to  be  murdered  here  1 
A  letter !    He  bids  me  unfasten  the  door,  Janette. 

Jan.  And  will  you  ? 

Helen.  They  are  treacherous  I  know.  This  will  do. — 
(Taking  a  basket  from  the  toilette.)  Give  me  that  cord. 
{She  lets  down  the  basket  Jrom  the  window,  and  draws 
it  up,  loith  a  letter  in  it.) 

Helen.  {Looking  at  the  superscription.)  'Tis  his! 
I  thought  so.  Is  it  ink  and  paper  that  I  want  now  1 
{Breaking  it  open.)  Ah,  there's  no  forgery  in  this.  'Tis 
his  J  'tis  his  I  , 


136  THE     BRIDE     OF 

Jan.  How  can  she  stand  to  look  at  that  little  lock  of 
hair  now? — smiling  as  if  she  had  found  a  bag  of  dia- 
monds. But  there's  bad  news  there.  How  the  color 
fades  out,  and  the  light  in  her  eye  dies  away.  What  can 
it  be? 

Helen.  {Throwing  the  letter  down,  and  walking  the 
jioor  hastily.)  This  is  too  much  !  I  cannot,  I  cannot, 
I  cannot  go  with  them  !  How  could  he  ask  it  of  me  ? 
This  is  cruel. 

He  knew,  perfectly  well,  how  I  have  always  feared 
them — I  cannot  go  with  them. 

{She  takes  up  the  letter.) 

{Reading.)  "  Possible  " — "  If  it  were  possible  " — he 
does  not  read  that  word  as  I  did  when  I  kept  this  pro- 
mise— Possible^  He  does  not  know  the  meaning  that 
love  gives  that  word — "  If  I  had  known  an  hour  sooner," 
— Ay,  ay,  an  hour  sooner ! — "  Trust  me,  dear  Helen, 
they  will  not  harm  you."  Trust  me,  trust  me.  Won't 
I? 

Jan,  She  is  beckoning  them,  as  I  live  ! 

Helen.  Bring  me  that  hat  and  mantle,  Netty.  I  must 
go  with  these  savages. 

Jan.  Go  with  them ! 

Helen.  There  is  no  help  for  it. 

Jan.  With  these  wild  creatures, — with  these  painted 


PORT     EDWARD.  137 

devils  1 — No — Like  nothing  human  they  look,  I  am 
sure.  Ah  see,  see  them  in  their  feathers  and  blankets, 
and  that  long  wild  hair.  See  the  knives  and  the  toma- 
hawks in  their  girdles !  Holy  Mary  !  Here's  one  with- 
in the  court! 

Helen.  Yes,  there  he  stands — there's  life  in  it  now. — 
.There  they  stand — the  chesnut  boughs  wave  over  them 
—this  is  the  filling  up  of  life.  They  are  waiting  for  me. 
'Tis  no  dream. 

Jan.  Dare  you  go  with  them  1  They  will  murder 
you. 

Helen.  If  they  were  but  human,  I  could  move  them — 
and  yet  it  is  the  human  in  them  that  is  so  dreadful.  To 
die  were  sad  enough — to  die  by  violence,  by  the  power 
of  the  innocent  elements,  were  dreadful,  or  to  be  torn  of 
beasts ;  to  meet  the  wild,  fierce  eye,  with  its  fixed  and 
deadly  purpose,  more  dreadf  "il ;  but  ah,  to  see  the  human 
soul,  from  the  murderers  eye  glaring  on  you,  to  encoun- 
ter the  human  will  in  its  wickedness,  amid  that  wild 
struggle — Oh  God !  spare  me. 

Jan.  If  you  fear  them  so,  surely  you  will  not  go  with 
them. 

Helen.  This  letter  says  they  are  kind  and  innocent. 
One  I  sJiould  believe  tells  me  there  is  no  cause  for  fear. 
In  his  haste  he  could  dfteHind  no  other  way  to  send  for 


12* 


133  THE     BRIDE     OP 

me. —  The  army  will  be  here  soon, —  I  must  go  with 
them. 

Jan.  But  Captain  Grey  will  come  back  here  again 
this  afternoon.     Stay, — stay,  and  we  will  go  with  him. 

Helen.  You  can — yes,  you  will  be  safe.  For  myself,  I 
will  abide  my  choice.  Surely  I  need  not  dread  to  go 
where  my  betrothed  husband  trusts  me  so  fearlessly.  I 
count  my  life  worth  little  more  than  the  price  at  which  he 
values  it.  Clasp  this  mantle,  Netty. — And  is  it  thus  I  go 
forth  from  these  blessed  walls  at  last  ? — Through  all  those 
safe  and  quiet  hours  ofpeace  and  trust,  did  this  dark  end 
to  them  lie  waiting  here? — Are  they  calling  me? 

Jan.  Yes. 

Helen.  Well, — I  am  ready.  {Lingering  in  the  door.)  I 
shall  sit  by  that  window  no  more.  Never  again  shall  I 
turn  those  blinds  to  catch  the  breeze  or  the  sunshine. 
Yes— (returning),  let  me  look  down  on  that  orchard 
once  again.     Never  more — never  more. 

{She  walks  to  the  door,  again  pausing  on  the  thres- 
hold. 

Helen,  {solemnly.)  Oh  God,  here,  from  childhood  to 
this  hour,  mcrning  and  evening  I  have  called  on  thee — 
forget  me  not.  Farewell,  Netty,  you  will  see  my  mother 
—you  will  see  them  all— that  is  past.— Tell  her  I  had 
seen  the  Indians,  and  was  not  afraid.        [  She  goes  out. 


FORT     EDWARD.  139 

Jan.  It  won't  take  much  to  make  an  angel  of  her, 
there's  that  in  it. 

{Looking  cautiously  through  the  shutters.) 

There  she  comes !  How  every  eye  in  that  wild  group 
flashes  on  her!  And  yet  with  what  a  calm  and  stately 
bearing  she  meets  them.  Holy  Mary  !  she  suffers  that 
savage  creature  to  lift  her  to  her  horse,  as  though  he 
were  her  brother,  and  the  long  knife  by  his  side  too,  glanc- 
ing in  the  sunshine !  The  horse,  one  would  think,  he 
knew  the  touch  of  that  white  hand  on  his  neck.  How 
gently  he  rears  his  beautiful  head.  There  they  go. 
Adieu  !     Was  there  ever  so  sad  a  smile? 

Another  glimpse  I  shall  have  of  them  yet  beyond  those 
trees. — Yes,  there  they  go — there  they  go.  I  can  see 
that  lovely  plume  waving  among  the  trees  still. — Was 
there  ever  so  wild  a  bridal  train  1 


DIALOGUE  III. 

Scene.  British  Camp.  The  interior  of  a  Tent  richly 
furnished.  An  Officer  seated  at  a  table  covered 
with  papers  and  maps.    A  Servant  in  xoaiting. 

The  Officer.  (Sipping  his  wine,  an  f  carefully  exa- 
mining a  plan  of  the  adjacml  country.)  About  here, 


140  THE     BRIDE     OF 

we  must  be — let  me  see. — I  heard  the  drum  from  their 
fort  this  morning,  distinctly.  Turn  that  curtain  ;  we 
might  get  a  faint  breeze  there  now. 

SerH.  But  the  sun  will  be  coming  that  side,  Sir.  It's 
past  two  o'clock. 

Off.  Past  two — a  good  position — very.  Well,  well, 
— we'll  take  our  breakfast  in  Albany  on  Friday  morning, 
and  if  our  soldiers  fast  a  day  or  two  ere  then,  why 
they'll  relish  it  the  better ; — once  in  the  rich  country  be- 
yond— Ay,  it  will  take  more  troops  than  this  General  will 
have  at  his  bidding  by  that  time,  to  drain  the  Hudson's 
borders  for  us. 

{A  Servant  enters  with  a  note.) 

Off.  (Reading.)  "  The  Baroness  ReideseVs  compli- 
ments— do  her  the  honor —  Voisin  has  succeeded.'''' — 
Ay,  ay, — Voisin  has  succeeded, — I'll  warrant  that.  That 
caterer  of  hers  must  be  m  league  with  the  powers  of 
the  air,  I  am  certain.  General  Burgoyne  will  be  but  too 
happy,  my  Lady — {writing  the  answer.) 

[  The  Servant  goes  out. 

Off.  Past  two !  The  cannon  should  be  in  sight  ere 
this.     This  to  Sir  George  Ackland. 

[Exit  the  Attendant. 

Off.  Tuesday — Wednesday. — If  the  batteaux  should 
get  here  to-morrow.    One  hundred  teams 

(^Another  Officer  enters  the  tent.) 


FORT     EDWARD.  141 

1st  Off.  How  goes  it  abroad,  Colonel  St.  Leger? 

2nd  Off.  Indeed,  Sir,  the  camp  is  as  quiet  as  midnight. 
It's  a  breathless  heat.  But  there  are  a  few  dark  heads 
swelling  in  the  west.  We  may  have  a  shower  yet  ere 
night. 

Bur.  Good  news  that.  But  here  is  better,  {giving 
the  other  an  open  letter.) 

St.  Leger.  Ay,  ay,  that  reads  well,  Sir. 

Bur.  And  here  is  another  as  good.  Yes  Sir, yes  Sir, — 
they  are  flocking  in  from  all  quarters — the  insurgents  are 
laying  down  their  arms  by  hundreds.  It  must  be  a 
miserable  fragment  that  Schuyler  has  with  him  by  this. 

St.  L.  General  Burgoyne,  is  not  it  a  singular  circum- 
stance, that  the  enemy  should  allow  us  to  take  possession 
of  a  point  like  that  without  opposition, — so  trifling  a 
detachment,  too?  Why,  that  hill  commands  the  fort, — 
certainly  it  does. 

Bur.  Well — well.  They  are  pretty  much  reduced, 
I  fancy.  Sir.  We  shall  hardly  hear  much  more  from 
them.    Let  me  see, — this  is  the  hill. 

St.  L.   A  pity  we  could  not  provoke  them  into  an 
engagement,   though  !     They  depend  so  entirely  upon 
the  popular  feehng  for  supplies  and  troops,  and  the  whole    <C.C 
machinery  of  their  warfare,  that  it  is  rather  hazard- 
ous reckoning  upon  them,  after  all.    If  we  could  draw 


142  THE     BRIDE     OP 

them  into  an  engagement  now,  the  result  would  be  cer- 
tain. 

Bur.  Yes,  yes ;  we  must  contrive  to  do  that  ere 
long.  Rather  troublesome  travelling  companions  they 
make,  that's  certain.  Like  those  insects  that  swarm 
about  us  here, — no  great  honor  in  fighting. them,  but  a 
good  deal  of  discomfort  in  letting  them  alone.  We  must 
sweep  them  out  of  our  way,  I  think,  or  at  all  events  give 
them  a  brush,  that  will  quiet  them  a  little. 

St.  L.  Or  they  might  prove,  after  all,  like  the  gad- 
fly in  the  fable.  I  do  not  think  this  outbreak  will  be 
any  disadvantage  in  the  end,  General. 

Bur.  Not  a  whit— not  a  whit — ihey  have  needed  this. 
It  will  do  them  good,  Sir. 

St.  L.  The  fact  is,  these  colonies  were  founded  in 
the  spirit  of  insubordination,  and  all  the  circumstances 
of  their  position  have  hitherto  tended  to  develope  only 
these  disorganizing  elements. 

Bur.  It  will  do  them  good,  Sir.  Depend  upon  it, 
they'll  remember  this  lesson.  Pretty  well  sickened  of 
war  are  they  all.  They'll  count  the  cost  ere  they  try  it 
again. 

St.  L.  We  can  hardly  expect  the  news  from  General 
Reidesel  before  sunset,  I  suppose. 

Bur.  If  my  messenger  returns  by  to-morrow's  sunrise, 
it  is  better  fortune  than  I  look  for. 


FORT     EDWARD.  143 

(  Col.  St.  Leger  goes  out.) 
(Burgoyne  resumes  his  plan.) 
A  SerH.  (At  the  door.)  Capt.  Maiiland,  Sir. 
Bur.  Capt.  Maitland ! 
Ser^t.  From  Fort  Ann,  Sir. 

(Maiiland  enters.) 

Bur.  Captain  Maitland!  Good  heavens,  I  thought 
you  were  at  Skeensborough  by  this, — what  has  happened  ? 
or  am  I  to  congratulate  myself  that  the  necessity  of  your 
embassy  is  obviated.    You  met  them,  perhaps  ? — 

Maitland.  There's  but  little  cause  of  congratulatioDj 
Sir,  as  these  dispatches  will  prove  to  you.  I  returned 
only  because  my  embassy  was  accomplished. 

Bur.  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Captain  Maitland,  that  you 
have  seen  the  waters  of  Lake  Champlain,  since  you  left 
here  this  morning  ? 

Mait.  I  do,  Sir. 

Bur.  On  my  word,  these  roads  must  have  improved 
since  we  travelled  them  some  two  days  agone.  I  am 
sorry  for  your  horses.  Sir.    You  saw  General  Reidesel? 

Mait.  I  left  him  only,  at  nine  o'clock  this  morning* 

{Burgoyne  examines  the  dispatches.) 
Bur,  "  Twelve  oxen  to  one  batteaux !" — "and  but  fifty 


144 


THE     B  RIDE     OP 


teams !"  This  news  was  scarcely  worth  so  much  hastC, 
I  think,— but  fifty  teams?— Captain  Mailland,  had  those 
draught  horses  from  Canada  not  arrived  yet? 

Mail.  They  were  just  landing  this  morning  as  I  left, 
but  only  one-fourth  of  the  number  contracted  for. 

Bur.  Humph  !    I  would  like  to  know  what  time,  at 

this  rate sit  down,  Captain  Maitland,  sit  down — we 

are  like  to  spend  the  summer  here,  for  aught  I  see, 
after  all.  {A  long  pause,  in  which  Burgoyne  resumes 
his  reading  ) 

Mait.  General  Burgoyne,  I  am  entrusted  with  a  mes- 
sage from  General  Reidsel  to  the  Baroness.  If  this  is 
all 

Bur.  What  were  you  saying? — The  Baroness — ay, 
ay — that's  all  well  enough, — but  Captain  Mailland  is 
aware,  no  doubt,  there  are  more  important  subjects  on 
the  tapis  just  now  than  a  lady's  behests. 

Mait.  Sir? 

Bur.  (Pushing  the  papers  impatiently  from  him.) 
This  will  never  do.  St.  George !  We'll  give  these 
rebels  other  work  ere  many  days,  than  driving  away  cattle 
and  breaking  down  bridges  for  our  convenience.  Mean- 
while we  must  open  some  new  source  of  supplies,  or 
we  may  starve  to  death  among  these  hills  yet.  Captain 
Maitland,  I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you.  You  are 
impatient,  Sir. 


^ORT     EDWARD.  145 

Mait.  General  Burgoyne ! 

Bur.  Nay,  nay, — there's  no  haste  about  it.  It  were 
cruel  to  detain  yoil  now,  after  the  toil  of  this  wild  jour- 
ney. You'll  find  your  quarters  changed.  Captain  Mait- 
land.  We  sent  a  small  detachment  across  the  river  just 
now.  Some  of  our  copper-colored  allies  had  got  into  a 
fray  with  the  enemy  there. 

Mait.  Ha!  {returning.) 

Bur.  Nothing  of  consequence,  as  it  turns  out.  We 
hoped  it  would  have  ended  in  something.  A  few  of  the 
enemy,  who  were  stationed  as  a  guard  on  a  hill  not  far 
from  Fort  Edward,  were  surprised  by  a  party  of  Indians, 
and  killed,  to  a  man,  I  believe.  Afterwards,  the  victors 
got  into  a  deadly  fray  among  themselves  as  usual.  A 
quarrel  between  a  couple  of  these  chiefs,  at  some  famous 
watering  place  of  theirs,  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  a  party 
from  the  fort  drove  them  from  the  ground; — this  is 
Alaska's /OWn  story  at  least. 

Mait.  Alaska's! 

Bur.  Alaska  ? — Alaska  ? — yes,  I  think  it  was, — one  of 
these  new  allies  we  have  picked  up  here. 

Mait.  (In  a  whisper.)  Good  God! 

Bur.  By  the  time  our  detachment  arrived  there,  how- 
ever, the  ground  was  cleared,  and  they  took  quiet  pes* 
session.    Are  you  ill,  Captain  Maitland  ? 
13 


146  THE     BRIDE     OF 

Mait.  A  little, — it  is  nothing.  I  am  to  cross  the 
river. 

Bur.  Yes.  You  will  take  these  papers  to  Captain 
Andre.  You  have  over-fatigaed  yourself.  You  should 
have  taken  more  lime  for  this  wild  journey. 

(Mait land  goes  out.) 

Bur.  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  division,  but  it  cannot  be 
helped  now.  This  gallant  young  soldier  were  a  fitting 
leader  for  such  an  enterprize. 


DIALOGUE  IV. 

Scene.     The  ground  be/ore  Maitland?8  Tent. 
(Maitland  and  the  Indian  Chief,  Manida^  enter.) 

Mait.  This  is  well.  {He  writes  on  a  slip  of  paper, 
and  gives  it  to  the  Indian.)  Take  that,  they  will  give 
you  the  reward  you  ask  for  it.  Let  me  see  your  face  no 
more,  that  is  all. 

Manida.  Ha,  Monsieur? 

Mait.  Let  me  see  your  face  no  more,  I  say.  Do  you 
understand  me  ? 

Manida.  (Smiling.)  Oui. 


PORT     EDWARD.  147 

{Maitland  turns  from  hirii.  The  Indian  goes  ofi  in 
the  opposite  direction.  He  stops  a  moment^  and  steals 
a  look  at  Maitland, — throws  his  head  back  with  a 
long  silent  laugh,  and  then  goes  on  toward  the 
woods.) 

Mail.  (Musing.)  I  like  this.  This  is  womanly ! 
Nay,  perhaps  there  is  no  caprice  about  it.  I  may  have 
misinterpreted  that  letter  in  my  haste  last  night.  Very 
likely.  Well, — better  this,  than  that  Helen  Grey  should 
come  to  evil  through  fault  of  mine, — better  this,  than  the 
anguish  of  the  horrible  misgivings  that  haunted  me  amid 
my  journey. 

And  so  pass  these  faery  visions !  Nay,  not  thus.  It 
will  take  longer  than  this  to  unlink  this  one  day's  hope 
from  its  thousand  fastnesses.  I  thought,  ere  this,  to  have 
met  the  spirit  of  those  beaming  eyes,  to  have  taken  to  my 
heart  for  ever  this  soft,  pure  being  of  another  life. 
And  yet,  even  as  I  rode  through  those  lonely  hills  this 
morning,  with  every  picture  my  hope  painted,  there  came 
a  strange  misgiving ; — like  some  scene  of  laughing  noon- 
day loveliness,  darkening  in  the  shadow  of  a  summer's 
cloud. 

Strange  that  Alaska  should  abandon  my  trust!  I  can- 
not understand  it.  Why,  I  should  never  have  trusted 
her  with  this  rascal  Indian.  There  was  something  in 
his  eye,  hateful  beyond  all  thought, — and  once  or  twice 
I  caught  a  strange  expression  in  it,  like  malignant  tri- 
umph it  seemed.    It  may  be — no,  he  must  have  seen 


148  THE    BRIDE    OF    FORT    EDWARD. 

her — that  glove  he  showed  me  was  hers,  I  know.    Good 

God  ! — what  if 1  think  my  old  experience  should 

have  taught  me  there  was  little  danger  of  her  risking 
much  in  my  behalf.  Well— even  this  is  better,  than  that 
Helen  Grey  should  have  come  to  evil  through  fault  of 
mine. 


PART  SIXTH. 


IEIgO(fi)S3'®ai£iII^®2(S)ISa"a 


DIALOGUE  I. 

Scene.  The  slope  of  the  Hill  near  Fort  Edward. 
The  road-side^  shaded  with  stately  pines  and  hem- 
locks. 

{Two  British  Officers^  coming  slowly  down  the  road.) 

1st  Off.  Yes,  here  has  been  wild  work  upon  this  hill 
to-day.     They  were  slaughtered  to  a  man. 

2nd  Off.  I  saw  a  sight  above  there,  just  now,  that 
sickened  nie  of  warfare. 

1st  Off.  And  what  was  that,  pry 'thee  ? 

2nd  Off.  Oh  nothing, — 'twas  nothing  but  a  dead  sol- 
13* 


150  THE     BRIDE     OP 

dier ;  a  common  sight  enough,  indeed ;  but  this  was  a 
mere  youth  j — he  was  lying  in  a  little  hollow  on  the  road- 
side, and  as  I  crossed  in  haste,  I  had  well-nigh  set  my 
foot  on  his  brow.  Such  a  brow  it  was,  so  young,  so  no- 
ble, and  the  dark  chesnui  curls  clustering  about  it.  I  think 
I  never  saw  a  more  classic  set  of  features,  or  a  look  of 
loftier  courage  than  that  which  death  seemed  to  have 
found  and  marbled  in  them.  Hark — that's  a  water-fall 
we  hear. 

1st  Off.  I  saw  him,  thete  was  another  though,  lying 
not  far  thence,  the  sight  of  whom  moved  me  more.  He 
was  younger  yet,  or  seemed  so,  and  of  a  softer  mould ; 
and,  torn  and  bloody  as  they  were,  I  fancied  I  could  see 
in  his  garb  and  appointments,  and  in  every  line  of  his 
features,  the  traces  of  some  mother's  tenderness. 

2n<2  O^.  Listen,  Andre !  This  is  beautiful !  There's 
some  cascade  not  far  hence,  worth  searching  for. 

Andre.  Yes,  just  in  among  those  trees  you'll  find  a 
perfect  drawing-room,  carpeted,  canopied,  and  dark  as 
twilight;  its  verdant  seats  broidered  with  violets  and 
forget-me-nots;  and  all  untenanted  it  seems,  nay,  desert- 
ed rather,  for  the  music  wastes  on  the  lonely  air,  as  if  the 
fairy  that  kept  state  there,  in  gossip  mood  had  stolen 
down  some  neighboring  aisle,  and  would  be  home  anon. 
I  would  have  bartered  all  the  glory  of  this  campaign  for 
leave  to  stretch  myself  on  its  mossy  bank,  for  a  soft  hour 
or  so. 


PORT    EDWARD.  151 

Mor.  Ay,  with  Chaucer  or  the  "  Faery  Q,ueen."  If 
one  could  people  these  lovely  shades  with  the  fresh  crea- 
tions of  the  olden  time,  knight  and  lady,  and  dark  en- 
chantress and  Paynim  fierce,  instead  of  Yankee  rebels — 

Andre.  J-Twere-welLyour  faery-work  were  of  no  last- 
ing mould,  or  these  same  Yankee  rebels  would  scarce 
thank  you  for  your  pains, — they  hold  that  race  in  little 
reverence.    Alas, — 

No  grot  divine,  or  wood-nymph  haunted  glen, 

Or  stream,  or  fount,  shall  these  young  shades  e'er  know. 

No  beautiful  divinity,  stealing  afar 

Through  darkling  nooks,  to  poet's  eye  thence  gleam; 

With  mocking  mystery  the  dim  ways  wind, 

They  reach  not  to  the  blessed  fairy-land 

That  once  all  lovely  in  heaven's  stolen  light, 

To  yearning  thoughts,  in  the  deep  green-wood  grew. 

Ah  !  had  they  co  ne  to  light  when  nature 

Was  a  wonder-loving,  story -telling  child  ! — 

The  misty  morn  of  ages  had  gone  by, 

The  dreamy  childhood  of  the  race  was  past, 

And  in  its  tame  and  reasoning  manhood. 

In  l.he  daylight  broad,  and  noon-day  of  all  time, 

TMs  vjcAd  hath  sprung.     The  poetry  ol  truth, 

None  other,  shall  her  shining  lakes,  and  woods, 

And  ocean-streams,  and  hoary  mountains  wear. 

Perchance  that  other  day  of  poesy, 

Unsung  of  prophets,  that  upon  the  lands 


152  THE      BRIDE     OP 

Shall  dawn  yet,  thence  shall  spring.      The  self-same 

mind 
That  en  the  night  of  ages  once,'for  us 
Those  deathless  clusters  flung,  the  self-same  mind, 
With  all  its  ancient  elements  of  might, 
Among  us  now  its  ancient  glory  hides  ; 
But,  from  its  smothered  power,  and  buried  wealth, 
A^ldenJ*uture  sparkles,  decked  from  deeper  founts, 
A  new  and  lovelier  firmament, 
A  thousand  realms  of  song  undreamed  of  now. 
That  shall  make  Romance  a  forgotten  world, 
And  the  young  heaven  of  Antiquity, 
With  all  its  starry  groups,  a  gathered  scroll. 

Mot.  Ay,  Andre,  you  were  born  a  poet,  and  have  mis- 
taken your  art.  Prythee  excuse  me,  who  am  but  a  poor 
soldier,  for  marring  so  fine  a  rhapsody  with  any  thing  so 
sublunary  ;  but,  methinks,  for  an  enemy's  quarters,  yon- 
der fort  shows  as  peaceable  a  front  of  stone  and  mortar 
as  one  could  ask  for.  What  can  it  mean  that  they  are 
so  quiet  there  ? 

Andre.  That  spy  did  not  return  a  second  time. 

Mor.  The  rogues  have  made  sure  of  him  ere  this,  I 
fancy.     They  may  have  given  us  the  slip, — who  knows? 

Andre.  I  would  like  to  venture  a  stroll  through  that 
shady  street  if  I  thought  so.  A  dim  impression  that  I 
have  somewhere  seen  this  view  before,  haunts  me  un- 
accountably. 


PORT     EDWARD.  153 

Mor.  How  I  hate  that  sober,  afternoon  air,  that  hangs 
like  an  invisible  presence  over  it  all.  You  can  see  it  in 
the  sunshine  on  those  white  walls,  you  can  hear  it  in  the 
hum  of  the  bee  from  the  bending  thistle  here. 

Andre.  Of  the  mind  it  is.  This  were  lovely  as  the 
morning  liijht,  but  for  the  shade  it  gathers  thence,  from 
the  thought  of  decline  and  the  vanishing  day.  'Tis  a 
pretty  spot. 

Mor.  Yes,  but  the  quiet  goings-on  of  life  are  all  hush- 
ed there  now. 

Andre.  Ay,  this  is  the  hour,  when  the  home-bound 
children  swing  the  gate  with  a  merry  spring,  and  the 
mother  sits  at  her  work  by  the  open  window,  with  her  quiet 
eye,  and  the  daughter,  with  the  beauty  of  an  untamed  soul 
in  her's,  looks  forth  on  the  woods  and  meadows,  and 
thinks  of  her  walk  at  even-tide.  I  thought  it  was  some- 
thing like  a  memory  that  haunted  me  thus, — 'tis  the  spot 
that  Maitland  talked  of  yesterday. 

Mor.  Captain  Maitland  ?  I  saw  him  just  now  at  the 
works  above. 

Andre.  Here?    On  this  hill  ? 

Mor.  Yes, — something  struck  me  in  his  mien, — and 
there  he  stands  with  Colonel  Hill,  above,  on  the  other 
side. — Mark  him  now.  Your  friend  is  handsome,  An- 
dre ;  he  is  handsome,  I'll  own, — but  I  never  liked  that 
smile  of  his,  and  I  think  I  like  it  less  than  ever  now. 


154  THE     BRIDE      OP 

Andre.  Why,  that's  the  genuine  Apollo-curl, — a  line's 
breadth  deeper  were  too  much,  I'll  own. 

(Maitland  and  another  Officer  enter.) 

Of.  That  is  all,~that  is  all,  I  believe,  Captain  Mait- 
land.  Yonder  pretty  dwelling  among  the  trees  seems 
an  old  acquaintance  of  yours.  It  has  had  the  ill  manners 
to  rob  me  of  your  eye  ever  since  we  stood  here,  and  I 
have  had  little  token  that  the  other  senses  were  not  in 
its  company.  Andre,  has  your  fnend  never  a  ladye-love 
in  these  wilds,  you  could  tell  us  ot  * 

Mor.  He  is  sworn  to  secresy.  Did  you  mark  that 
glance  ? 

Alait.  Love  !  I  hold  it  a  pretty  theme  for  the  ballad- 
makers.  Colonel  Hill ;  but  for  myself,  I  have  scarce  time 
for  rhyming  just  now.  Captain  Andre,  here  are  papers  for 
you.  [fTe  walks  away,  descending  the  road. 

Col  Hill.  So !     So !     What  ails  the  boy  ? 

(Looking  after  him  for  a  mom,enii  and  then  ascending 
the  hill.) 

Andre.  (Beading.)  Humph  !  Here's  prose  enough  ! 
Will  you  walk  up  the  hill  with  me,  Mortimer  ?  I  must 
cross  the  river  again. 

Mort.  First  let  me  seek  this  horse  of  mine, — the  rogue 
^must  have  strayed  down  this  path,  I  think. 
(He  enters  the  wood.) 


PORT    EDWARD.  365 

(Andre  walks  to  and  fro  with  an  impatient  air^  then 
pauses.) 

Andre.  Well,  I  can  wait  no  longer  for  this  loiterer. 

lExit. 

(Mortimer  re-enters,  calling  from  the  woods.) 

Mor.    Andre !      Maitland !      Colonel    Hill !       Good 
Heavens !     Where  the  devil  are  they  all  ?     Maitland ! 

(Maitland  appears,  slowly  ascending  the  road.) 

Mor.  For  the  love  of  Heaven, — come  here. 

Mait.  Nay.— but  what  is  it  ? 

Mor.  For  God's  sake,  come. 


DIALOGUE  n. 

Scene.  A  little  glen,  darkly  shaded  with  pines.  A 
fountain  issuing  from  one  side,  and  falling  with  a 
curious  murmur  into  the  basin  beloio. 

Mortimer  and  Maitland  enter. 

Mor.  This  is  the  place !— Well,  if  hallucinations  like 
this  can  visit  mortal  eyes,  I'll  ne'er  trust  mine  again, 
'Tis  the  spot,  I'm  sure  of  it, — the  place,  too,  that  Andre 


156  THE    BRIDE     OP 

was  raving  about  just  now.-^-TheJdries'  drawing-foom, 
— :j)alace  rather, — lock  at  these  graceful  shalts,  Mait- 
land, — and  fairies'  work,  it  must  have  been  in  good 
earnest. 

Mait.  If  it's  to  admire  this  clump  of  pine  trees  you 
have  brought  me  hither,  allow  me  to  say  you  might  have 
spared  yourself  that  trouble.  I  have  seen  the  place  al- 
ready, as  often  as  I  care  to. 

Mor.  Come  this  way  a  little,— yes,  it  was  just  above 
there  that  I  stood, — it  must  have  been. 

Mait.  If  you  would  give  me  some  little  inkling  of  what 
you  are  talking  about,  Lieutenant  Mortimer,  I  should  be 
more  likely  to  help  you,  if  it's  help  you  need. 

Mor.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  believe  me,  but, — as  I  was 
springing  on  my  horse  just  now  above  there,  the  gurgling 
of  this  spring  caught  my  ear,  and  looking  down  sudden- 
ly—upon ray  word.  Captain  Maitland,  I  am  ashamed 
to  describe  what  cannot  but  seem  to  you  such  an  im- 
probable piece  of  fancy-work ;  and  yet,  true  it  seemed,  as 
that  I  see  you  now.  I  was  looking  down,  as  I  said,  whea 
suddenly,  among  those  low  evergreens,  the  brilliant  hue 
of  a  silken  mantle  caujhl  my  eye,  and  then  a  woman's 
brow  gleamed  up  upon  me.  Yes,  there  in  that  dark 
cradle,  calmly  sleeping,  all  flashing  with  gold  and  jewels, 
like  some  bright  vision  of  olden  time,  methought  there 
lay — a  lady,— a  girl,  young,and  lovely  as  a  dream ;— the 
white  plume  in  her  bonnet  soiled  and  broken,  and  the 


PORT     EDWARD.  157 

long  bright  hair  streaming  heavily  on  her  mantle, — and 
yet  with  all  its  loveliness,  such  a  face  of  utter  sorrow  saw 
I  never.  I  saw  her,  I  saw  her,  as  I  see  you  now, — the 
proud  young  form  with  such  a  depth  of  grace,  in  its 
strange  repose,  and — where  are  you  going? — what  are 
you  doing,  Maitland  1 

Mait.  Helen  Grey  !— 

Mor.  You  are  right.  I  did  not  mark  that  break — yes 
— there  she  lies.     Said  I  right,  Maitland  ? 

Mait.  Helen  Grey  ! — 

Mor.  Maitland !  Heavens  ! — what  a  world  of  anguish 
that  tone  reveals !— Why  do  you  stand  gazing  on  that  love- 
ly sleeper  thus  1 

Mait.  Bring  water.  There's  a  cup  at  yonder  spring. 
Here  has  been  treachery  !  Devils  and  fiends  have  been 
working  here  against  me.  We  must  unclasp  this  man- 
tle. The  treasure  of  the  earth  lies  here. — Now  doth 
mine  arm  enfold  it  once,  at  last.  'Tis  sweet,  Helen, 
mine  own  true  love ;  'tis  sweet,  even  thus. 

Mor.  This  letter, — -see— from  those  loosened  folds  it 
just  now  dropped.  This  might  throw  some  light,  per- 
chance— 

Mait.  Let  it  be.  There's  light  enough.  I  want  no 
more.    Water, — more  water, — do  you  see  ? 

Mor.  Maitland, — this  is  vain.  Mark  this  dark  spot 
upon  her  girdle— 


158  THE     BRIDE    OF 

Mait.  Hushj  hush, — there,  cover  it  thus — 'tis  nothing. 
Loosen  this  bonnet — so — 'twas  a  firm  hand  that  tied 
that  knot ;  so — she  can  breathe  now. 

Mor.  How  like  life,  those  soft  curls  burst  fiom  their 
loosened  pressure  !  But  mark  you — there  is  no  other  mo- 
tion. I  am  sorry  to  distress  you, — but — Maitland — this 
lady  is  dead. 

Mait.  Dead  I  Lying  hell-hound!  Dead !  Say  that 
again. 

Mor.  God  help  you ! 

Mait.  Dead!  Helen  Grey,  open  these  eyes.  Here's 
one  that,  never  having  seen  them,  talks  of  death.  Oh 
God !  is  it  thus  we  meet  at  last  ?  At  last  these  arms 
are  round  her,  and  she  knows  it  not.  I  look  upon  her, 
but  her  eye  answers  me  not.  Dead  ! — for  me  ?  Mur- 
dered ! — mine  own  hand  hath  done  it. 

Mor.  Why  do  you  start  thus  ? 

Mait.  Hush  ! — hush !  There  ! — again — that  slow 
heavy  throb — again !  again ! 

Mor.  Good  God  !  she  breathes  !     This  is  life  indeed. 

Mait.  {Solemnly.)  Ay,  thank  God.  This  moment's 
sweetness  is  enough. 

Mor.  How  hke  one  in  troubled  sleep  she  murmurs ! 
Mark  those  tones  of  sweet  and  wild  entreaty.    Listen  ! 

Mait.  I  have  heard  it  again ! — from  the  buried  years 


FORT     EDWARD.  159 

oflovreaad  hope  that  music  came.  She  is  here.  'Tis 
she.  This  is  no  marble  mockery.  She  is  here !  Her 
head  is  oq  my  bosom.  Death  cannot  rob  me  of  this 
sweetness  now. 

(Talking  without.) 

A  Lady.  This  way — I  hear  their  voices.  Down  this 
pathway — here  they  are. 

(Lady  Ackland  and  Andre  enter  the  Glen.) 

Lady  A.  I  knew  it  could  not  be.  They  told  us  she 
was  murdered,  Maitland.  (Starting  back.)  Ah — ah — 
God  help  thee,  Maitland ! 

Mait.  Listen,  listen.  She  was  speaking  but  now. 
There — again ! 

Lady  A.  And  this  is  she !  Can  the  wilderness  blos- 
som thus  ?  And  did  God  unfold  such  loveliness — for  a 
waste  so  cruel  ? 

Helen.  (In  a  low  murmur.)  We  are  almost  there. 
If  we  could  but  pass  this  glen.  Oh  God  !  will  they  stop 
here  1  Go  on, — go  on.  Was  not  that  a  white  tent  I 
saw  ?  Go  on.  They  will  not,  'Tis  nothing, — do  not 
weep. 

Mait.  Look  at  me,  Helen. — Open  these  eyes.  One 
more  look — one  more. 

Andre.  She  hears  your  bidding. 

Mait.  Oh  God !    Do  you  see  those  eyes — those  dim, 


160  THE     BKIDE     OF 

bewildered  eyes  ? — it  is  quenched — quenched.     Let  her 
lean  on  you. 

Lady  A.  Gently — gently,  she  does  not  see  us  yet. 

Helen.  Oh  Mother,  I  am  ill  and  weary.  Here's  this 
dream  again  !  Blue  sky  ?  and  pine-tree  boughs  ?  Am  I 
here  indeed  ?  Yes,  I  remember  now, — we  stood  upon 
that  cliff— I  am  dying.  Is  there  no  one  here  ?  Whose 
tears  are  these  ? 

Lady  A.  Dear  child,  sweet  one,  nay,  lean  on  mc. 

Helen.  My  mother,  oh  my  mother,  come  tome.  Come, 
Annie,  come,  come !     Strangers  all ! 

Mor.  Her  eye  is  on  him.    Hush  ! 

Andre.  See  in  an  instant  how  the  light  comes  flashing 
up  from  those  dim  depths  again.  That  is  the  eye  that  1 
saw  yesterday. 

Lady  A.  That  slowly  settling  smile, — deeper  and 
deeper — saw  you  ever  any  thing  so  gay,  so  passing  love- 
ly? 

Helen.  Is  it— is  it — Everard  Maitland— is  it  theel 
The  living  real  of  my  thousand  dreams,  in  the  light  of 
life  doth  he  stand  there  now  ?    Doth  he ?    ' Tis  he  ! 

Mail.  Helen! 

Helen.  'Tis  he  !  That  tone's  spell  builds  around  me 
its  all-sheltering  music-walls,  and  death  is  nothing.  Oh 
God,  when  at  thy  dark  will  dimly  revealed,  1  trembled 


PORT    EDWARD.  161 

yesterday,  I  did  not  think  in  this  most  rosy  bower  to 
meet  its  fearfulness. 

Mait.  Helen, — dost  thou  love  me  yet7 

Helen.  Doubter,  am  I  dying  here  ? 

Mait.  'Tis  her  own  most  rich  and  blessed  smile, 
even  as  of  old  in  mirth  it  shone  upon  me.  Your  murder- 
er, you  count  me  then  ? 

Helen.  Come  hither, — let  me  lean  on  you.  Star  of 
the  wilderness ! — of  this  life  that  is  fading  now,  the  sun! 
— doth  mme  eye  see  thee,  then,  at  last?  Oh  !  this  is 
sweet !  On  its  own  holy  home  my  head  rests  now. 
Everard,  in  this  dark  world  Love  leans  on  Faith.  How- 
else,  even  in  God's  love  and  loveliness,  could  I  trust  now 
for  that  strange  future  on  whose  bloody  threshold  I  am  ly- 
ing here ;  yes,  and  in  spite  of  prayers  and  trust,  and  strug- 
gling hopes.  And  yet — how  beautiful  it  is — that  love  in- 
visible, invisible  no  more.  Like  glorious  sunshine  it  is 
streaming  round  me, — lighting  all.  The  infinite  of  that 
thy  smile  hath  imaged,  as  real, — it  beams  on  me  now. 
Have  faith,  in  him  I  mean  ;  for — if  we  meet  again — we'll 
need  it  then  no  more;  and — how  dim  it  grows — nay,  let 
me  lean  on  you, — and — through  this  life's  darkening 
glass  I  shall  see  you  no  more.  Nay,  hold  me  ! — quick! — 
where  art  thou? — Eversird ! — He  is  gone — gone ! 

Lady  A.  Dead  I— 

Mor.  She  is  dead  I 


162  THE     BRIDE     OP 

Andre.  This  was  Love. 

Lady  A.  See  how  her  eyes  are  fixed  on  you.  The 
light  and  love  of  the  vanished  soul  looks  through  them 
still.  Cruelly  hath  it  been  sent  thence ;  and  no  other 
gleam  of  its  changeful  beauty  will  e'er  dawn  in  thern. 
Sadly,  oh  lovely  stranger,  I  close  for  ever  now  these 
dark-fringed  lids  upon  their  love  and  beauty.  Yes — this 
was  love ! 

Andre.  And  so  there  was  a  need-be  in  its  doom.  I'll 
ne'er  believe  that  genuine,  that  is  blessed.  The  fate  of 
this  life  would  not  suffer  it.  Ah !  if  it  would,  if  Heaven 
should  leave  a  gem  like  that  outside  her  walls,  we  should 
none  of  us  go  thither* 

Mail.  Dead?  How  beautiful!  Yes— let  her  lie 
there — under  that  lovely  canopy.    Dead  ! — it's  a  curious 

word How  comes  it  that  we  all  stand  heie  ?    Ha, 

Andre? — is  it  you? 

Andre.  I  heard  the  tale  as  I  crossed  just  now,  from 
an  Indian,  who  was  one  in  the  ambuscade  this  noon — 
and  in  the  woods  on  the  other  side,  I  found  this  lady, 
with  her  attendants,  abiding  the  promise  she  made  you 
last  night,  to  welcome  this  lovely  stranger  with  her  sa- 
vage guides. 

Mait.  Hush,  hush.    Let  it  pass.    See, — a  bride ! 

Mor,  {Aside.)  Did  he  trust  her  with  these  murder- 
ers? 


PORT     EDWARD.  163 

Mait.  Ay — say  yes. 

Andre.  Indeed,  Maitland,  you  wrong  yourself.  It  was 
the  treachery  of  this  savage  Manida  that  crossed  your 
plans,  working  tlie  mission  of  some  Higher  power, — as  for 
Alaska,  you  might  as  soon  have  doubted  me. 

The  Chief  he  sent  for  her  was  one  he  had  known 
years— but,  unfortunately,  he  was  one  in  the  ambuscade 
this  morning— nay,  the  leader  of  it;  for  the  murdered  In- 
dian was  his  son ;  and  meanwhile  amid  the  fight  the 
treacherous  Manida,  who  accompanied  him  to  Mait- 
land's  tent  last  night,  and  heard  the  promised  reward, 
found  means  to  steal  from  its  concealment  the  letter, 
with  which  he  easily  won  this  trij^ting  lady  to  accompa- 
ny him. 

Mor.  Ah  ! — there  it  lies. 

Andre.  It  was  here  in  this  glen  that  Alaska,  discover- 
ing the  treachery,  lay  in  wait  for  them  with  a  band  of 
chosen  warriors,  and  on  that  cliff  above  they  fought. 

Lady  A.  (Aside.)  And  she  stood  there,  amid  those 
yelling  demons  alone  !    Methinks  the  angels  should  have 
come  from  their  unseen  dwellingsat  her  prayer.     Can    u-^ 
our  humanity's  darkest  extremity  wring  no  love  from  the 
invisible.? — 

Andre.  Alaska  had  regained  his  charge ;  but  the  ma- 
lignant eye,  and  the  deadly  arrow  of  the  vanquished  In- 
dian followed  her.  She  fell,  even  in  the  place  where  you 
found  her  ;  for  at  that  same  instant  a  party  from  the  fort 


C.A 


164  THE     BRIDE      OF 

drove  them  hence,  victor  and  vanquished.  Alaska  fled  ; 
but  the  murderer,  with  a  tale  cunning  enough  to  deceive 
the  lover,  boldly  demanded  and  obtained  the  prize. 

Mor.  Mark  his  changed  mien.  I  would  rather  see 
tears  for  a  grief  like  this,  than  that  calm  smile  with 
which  he  gazes  on  her  now. 

(Burgoyne  and  St.  Leger  are  seen  talking  in  the  road 
above, — they  enter  the  glen.) 

Bur.  At  a  crisis  like  this  we  might  better  have  lost  a 
thousand  men  in  battle  !  Ah  I  ah  ! — a  sight  for  our  ene- 
mies, Lady  Ackland  !     Where  is  this  Indian  ? 

St.  L.  We  have  sent  out  for  him.  No  one  has  seen 
him  as  yet. 

Bur.  Let  him  be  found.  Look  to  it.  We  will  give 
them  an  example  for  once.  I  say,  at  a  crisis  like  this 
we  might  better  have  lost  a  thousand  men  in  battle, 
for  it  will  turn  thousands  against  us,  and  rouse  the 
slumbering  spirit  of  resistance  here,  at  the  very  crisis 
when,  had  it  slumbered  on  a  little  longer,  all  was  ours. 

St.  L.  But  this  was  a  quarrel  among  the  Indians,  and 
no  fault  of  ours. 

Bur.  No  matter.  You  will  see  what  Schuyler  will 
make  of  it.  His  wordy  proclamation  will  have  its  living 
sequel  now.  A  young  and  innocent  girl,  seeking  the 
protection  of  our  camp,  is  inhumanly  murdered  by  In- 
dians in  our  pay.    A  single  tale  like  this  is  enough  to 


PORT     EDWARD.  165 

undo  at  a  blow  all  that  we  have  accomplished  here. 
With  ten  thousand  wild  aggravations,  it  will  be  told  in 
every  cottage  of  these  borders  before  to-morrow's  sun- 
set. 

(Another  Officer  enters  hastily.) 

Off.  Here  is  Arnold,  with  a  thousand  men,  on  the 
brow  of  the  next  hill.  One  of  the  rebel  guard  escaped, 
and  the  news  of  the  massacre  here  has  reached  their 
camp  below. 

Bur.  Said  I  right  ? 

(  The  three  Officers  go  out  together.) 

Andre.  This  story  is  spreading  fast,  there  will  be 
throngs  here  presently.  Maitland, — nay,  do  not  let  me 
startle  you  thus,  but 

Mait.  Is  it  you?  What  was  it  we  were  saying  yes- 
terday ? — we  should  have  noted  it.  This  were  a  picture 
worth  your  pencilling  now.  Those  silken  vestments, — 
that  long,  golden  hair, — this  youthful  shape, — there's  that 
same  haughty  grace  about  it,  that  the  smile  of  these 
thought-lit  eyes  would  disown  with  every  glance.  Then 
that  letter,— and  the  Lady  Ackland  here, — Weeping? — 
This  is  most  strange.  I  know  you  all, — but, — as  I  live  I 
can't  remember  how  this  chanced.  How  comes  it  that  we 
all  stand  here  ?  Pearls  ? — and  white  silk  ?— a  bridal  ?— 
Ha  ha  ha !  {Laughing  wildly.) 


166 


THE      BRIDE      OP 


Z/atZy  A.  Take  me  away.  This  is  too  terrible  !  lean 
stay  here  no  longer.     Take  me  away,  Andre. 

[Exeunt  Andre  and  Lady  A. 

(Aoi  Officer  enters.) 

The  Officer.  We  are  ordered  to  withdraw  our  detach- 
ment, Captain  Maitland.  The  rebels  are  just  below, 
some  two  thousand  strong,  and  in  no  mood  to  be  encoun- 
tered. 

Mor.  He  does  not  hear  you.  We  must  leave  that 
murdered  lady  here,  and  'tis  vain  to  think  of  parting 
them.     Come. 

[Exeunt  Mortimer  and  Officer. 

Matt.  They  are  gone  at  last.  They  are  all  gone.  I 
am  alone  with  my  dead  bride.  I  must  needs  smile — I 
could  not  weep  when  those  haughty  and  prying  eyes 
were  upon  me,  but  now — I  am  alone  with  my  dead  bride. 
— Helen ,  they  are  all  gone, — we  are  alone.  How  still  she 
lies, — smiling  too, — on  that  same  bank.  She  will  speak, 
surely  she  will.  How  lightly  those  soft  lashes  lie,  as  if  a 
word  would  lift  them. — Helen ! — I  will  be  calm  and  pa- 
tient as  a  child.  This  lovely  smile  is  deepening,  it  will 
melt  to  words  again. — Hark!  that  spring, — that  same 
curious  murmur!  We  have  checked  our  sweetest 
words  to  hear  it,  we  have  stood  here  listening  to  it,  till 
we  fancied,  in  its  talk-like  tones,  wild  histories,  beautiful 
and  sad,  the  secrets  of  the  woods. — Oh  God! — and  have 


PORt     EDWARD.  167 

such  memories  no  power  here  now  1  In  mine  ear  alone 
doth  the  spring  murmur  now.  Death!  what  is't? — 
Awake!  awake, — by  the  love  that  is  stronger  than 
death, — awake  ! — 

I  thought  that  scene  would  shift.  It  had  a  heavy, 
dream-like  mistiness.  This  is  reality  again.  These 
are  thejpine  trees  that  I  dreamed  of.  See  !  how  beauti- 
ful !  With  the  sharp  outline  and  the  vivid  hue  such  as 
our  childhood's  unworn  sense  yields,  they  are  waving 
now.  Look,  Andre,  there  she  sits,  the  young  and  radiant 
stranger, — there,  in  the  golden  sunset  she  is  sitting  still, 
braiding  those  flowers, — see,  how  the  rich  life  flashes  in 
her  eye,  and  yet,  just  now  I  dreamed  that  she  was  dead, 
and — and — Oh  my  God  ! 

{A  voice  without.) 

Let  go,  who  stays  me  ? — where's  my  sister  ? 

(  Captain  Grey  enters.) 

Grey.  Ha!    Murderer!  art  satisfied? 

Mait.  Ay. 

Grey*  What,  do  you  mock  me.  Sir  ? 

Mait.  Let  her  be.  She  is  mine  ! — all  mine  !  my 
love,  my  bride, — my  bride?  —  Murderer?  —  Stay! — 
Don't  glare  at  me !  I  know  you.  Sir.  I  can  hurl  off 
these  mountain  shadows  yet. — They'll  send  some  strong- 
er devil  ere  they  wrench  this  hold  from  me  !  I  know 
you  well.    What  make  you  here  ? 


i68  TfiE     BRIDE     Of 

Grey.  Madness ! — there's  little  wonder ! — It's  the  only 
good  that  Heaven  has  left  for  him  !  My  lovely  play- 
fellow,— my  sister,  is  it  so  indeed?  Alas!  all  gently 
lies  this  hand  in  luine.  There  is  no  angry  strength  here 
now.  Helen ! — Ah !  would  to  God  our  last  words  had 
not  been  in  bitterness. 

Mail.  He  weeps.  I  never  thought  to  see  tears  there. 
List ! — she  should  not  lie  there  thus.  Strange  it  should 
move  you  so ! — Think  it  a  picture  now.  'Tis  but  a  well- 
wrought  painting  after  all,  if  one  but  thinks  so.  See, — 
'tis  but  a  sleeping  girl,  with  the  red  summer  light  upon 
her  cheek,  and  the  slight  breeze  stirring  her  golden  hair. 
Mark  you  that  shoulder's  grace? — They  come. 

{Leslie,  Elliston,  and  others  enter.) 

Leslie.  Oh  God,  was  there  none  other  ?  My  lovely 
cousin,  and — were  you  the  victim  ?  In  your  bridal  glory 
chosen, — nay,  with  your  heart's  holiest  law  lured  to  the 
( bloody  altar  I  Yet  this  day's  history,  and  something  in 
that  calm,  high  mien,  tells  me,  as  freely  you  had  moved 
unto  it,  though  God  had  spoken  by  a  higher  voice,  and 
with  a  martyr's  garland  beckoned  you. 

Elliston.  Our  cause  is  linked  unto  that  ancient  one, 
the  cause  of  Love  and  Truth ;  in  which  Heaven  moves 
with  unrelenting  hand,  not  sparing  its  own  loveliest 
ones,  but  unto  bloody  death  freely  delivering  them. 

{Grey  and  Leslie  converse  apart.) 


FORT     EDWARD.  163 

Leslie.  Yes— wc  will  bury  her  here.  'Tis  a  fitting 
spot;  and  unto  distant  days,  this  lonely  grave,  with  its 
ever-verdant  canopy,  shall  be  even  as  Love's  Shrine. 
Thither,  in  the  calm  and'siniling  summers  of  those  blood- 
less times  shall  many  a  Hiir  young  pilgrim  come,  to 
wonder  at  such  love ;  and  living  eyes  shall  weep,  and 
living  hearts  shall  heave  over  its  cruel  fate,  when  unto 
her  the  long-tolJ  tab,  and  all  the  anguish  of  this  far-oflf 
day,  shall  be  even  as  the  dim  passage  of  some  troubled 
dream.  A  martyr's  garland  she  hath  won  indeed  ;  true 
Love's  young  Martyr  there  she  lies. 

Elliston.  Yet  was  that  love  but  the  wreathed  and  glit- 
tering weapon  of  a  higher  doon.    In  that  holy  cause,  \ 
whose  martyrs  strew  a  thousand  fields,  truth's,  freedom's,    ' 
God's,  darkly,  by  Power  Invisible  hath  this  young  life 
been  offered  here. 

A  thousand  graves  like  this,  over  all  this  lovely  land, 
in  lanes  and  fields,  on  the  lonely  hill-side,  by  the  laugh- 
ing stream,  and  in  the  depths  of  many  a  silent  wood,  to 
distant  days  shall  speak — of  blood-sealed  destinie|; 
with  voices  that  no  tyrant's  power  can  smother,  they 
shall  speak. — 

Leslie.  The  light  of  that  chamber  window,  through 
the  soft  summer  evening  will  shine  here ;  no  mournful 
memory  of  all  the  lovely  past  wi.l  it  waken.  The  au- 
tumn blaze  will  flicker  within  those  distant  walls,  and 
gather  its  pleasant  circle  again  j  but  she  will  lie  calmly 
15 


170  THE     BRIDE     OF 

here.  For  ever  at  her  feet  the  river  of  her  childhood 
shall  murmur  on,  and  many  a  lovely  spring-time,  like  the 
spring-times  of  her  childhood,  shall  come  and  go,  but  no 
yearning  hope  shall  it  waken  here ;  the  winter  shall  sing 
through  the  desolate  boughs,  and  rear  its  fairy  temples 
around  her,  but  nought  shall  break  her  dreamless  rest. — 

Mait.  Graves!  Is  it  graves  they  are  talking  of? 
Will  they  bury  this  gay  young  bride!  'Tis  but  the 
name  ;  there's  nothing  sad  in  it.  In  the  lovely  summer 
twilight  shall  her  burial  be,  and  thus ;  in  all  her  bridal 
array,  with  the  glory  of  the  crimson  sunset  shining 
through  the  trees  ;— see  what  a  fearful  glow  is  kindling 
on  her  cheek,  and  that  faint  breeze — or,  is  it  life  that  stirs 
these  curls  ?  Stay  ! — whose  young  brow  is  this  ?— Ha ! 
nohose  smile  is  this?  Who  is  this  they  would  hurry 
away  into  the  darkness  of  death?  The  grave  !  Could 
you  fold  the  rosy  and  all-speading  beauty  of  heaven  in 
the  narrow  grave  ?  Helen,  is  it  thee  ?— my  heaven,  ray 
long- lost  heaven ;  and,  even  now,  but  for  mine  own  deed 
— Oh  God  !  was  there  no  hand  but  mine? — ^but  for  me 

— They  shall  not  utter  it, — there,  thus.     There's 

but  one  cry  that  could  unfold  this  grief,  but  that  would 
circle  the  round  universe  and  fill  eternity.  A  sad  sight 
this  !    Is't  known  who  killed  this  lady,  Sir  ? 

Leslie.  Oi  all  the  wrecks  of  beautiful  humanity  that 
strew  these  paths,  we  have  found  none  so  sad  as  (his  ! 


FORT     EDWARD.  171 

Elliston.  Mark  you  those  groups  of  soldiers  loitering 
on  the  road-side  there  ? 

An  Officer.  Curiosity.  The  regiment  that  was  dis- 
missed to-day.     They'll  be  here  anon. 

Leslie.  Ay,  let  them  come. 

OJf.  Look, — who  comes  up  that  winding  pathway 
through  the  trees,  with  such  a  swift  and  stately  move- 
ment? A  woman!  See  how  the  rude  soldiers  turn 
aside  with  awe.    Ah,  she  comes  hithsr. 

(A  voice  without.) 

Where  is  she? — stand  aside  ! — What  have  you  here 
in  this  dark  ring? — Henry — nay,  let  me  come. 

(Mrs.  Grey  enters  the  glen.) 

Grey.  For  God's  sake,  Madam,  let  me  lead  you  hence. 
This  is  no  place  for  you.  Look  at  this  group  of  men, 
officers,  soldiers — 

Mrs.  G.  Would  you  cheat  me  thus!  Is  it  no  place 
for  me  ?  What  kind  of  place  is't  then  for  her,  whose — 
Oh  God  ! — think  you  I  do  not  see  that  slippered  foot,  nor 
know  whose  it  is, — and  whose  plumed  bonnet  is  it  that 
lies  crushed  there  at  their  feet  ?— unhand  me,  Henry. 

Leslie.  Nay,  let  her  come, — 'tis  best. 

(She  passes  swiftly  through  the  parting  groip.) 

Mrs.  G,  My  daughter ! — Blood  7     My  stricken  child 


172  THE     BRIDE     OP 

smile  you  ?  No  pity  was  there  then  ?  Speal?  to  me,  speak ! 
Your  mother's  tears  are  on  your  brow,  and  heed  you  not? 
Nay,  tell  me  all,  my  smitten  one.  This  day's  dark  histo- 
ry will  you  never  pour  into  my  ear,  that  hath  treasured  so 
often  your  lightest  grief?  Alone  through  that  wild  an- 
guish have  you  passed,  and  smile  you  now  ?  I  bade  her 
trust  in  God.    Did  God  see  this  ? 

{Arnold^  and  a  group  of  Soldiers^  enter  the  glen.) 

Arnold.  Look  there.  Ay,  ay,  look  there.  You  were 
right,  Leslie ; — this  is  better  than  a  battle-field.  They'll 
find  that  this  day's  work  will  cost  them  dear. 

Mrs.  G.  Did  God,  who  loves  as  mothers  love  their 
babes,  see  this  ?  Had  I  been  there,  with  my  love,  in  the 
heavens,  could  /have  given  up  this  innocent  and  tender 
child  a  prey  to  the  wild  Indians?  No  ! — and  legions  of 
pitying  angels  waiting  but  my  word.    No, — no. 

J5JiE9Zow.  Had  you  been  there, — from  that  far  centre 
whence  God's  eye  sees  all,  you  had  beheld  what  lies  in 
darkness  here.  Forth  from  this  fearful  hour  you  might 
hare  seen  Peace,  like  a  river,  flowing  o'er  the  years  to 
come ;  and  smiles,  ten  thousand,  thousand  smiles,  down 
the  long  ages  brightening,  sown  in  this  day's  tears.  Had 
you  been  there  with  God's  aZ/-pitying  eye,  the  pitying 
legions  had  waited  your  word  in  vain,  for  once,  unto  a 
sterner  doom,  for  the  world's  sake  he  gave  his  Son. 

ATrs.  Cr.  Words  !    Look  there.    That  mother  warned 


PORT     EDWARD.  173 

me    yesterday.    "  WordSj   words!    My    own    child?8 
hlood^^ — I  see  it  now. 

(.4  group  of  Soldiers  enter.) 

A.  Soldier.  {Whispering.)  Who  would  have  thought 
to  see  tears  on  his  face  j  look  you.  Jack  Richards. 

Another  Sol.  'Twas  his  sister,  hush!— 

Arnold.  Ay,  ay,  come  hither.  Look  you  there! 
Lay  down  your  arms.  Seek  the  royal  mercy  j^here  it 
is.  Your  wives,  your  sisters,  and  your  innocent  chil- 
dren J — let  them  seek  the  royal  shelter; — it  is  a  safe  one. 
See. 

3rf  Sol.  It  was  just  so  in  Jersey  last  winter ; — made 
no  difference  which  side  you  were. 

Arnold.  Ask  no  reasons. — 'Twas  in  sport  may  be.  'Tis 
but  one,  in  many  such.  Shameless  tyranny  we  have 
borne  long,  and  now,  for  resistance,  to  red  butchery  we 
are  given  over.  The  sport  of  lawless  soldiers,  and  sa- 
vages more  cruel  than  the  fiends  in  hell,  are  we,  and  the 
gentle  beings  of  our  homes ; — but,  'tis  the  Royal  power. 
Lay  down  your  arms.    ^ 

Soldiers.  (Shouting.)  No. 

Arnold.  Nay,  nay, — in  its  caprice  some  will  be  safe, 
— it  may  not  light  on  you.  See,  here's  the  proclamation. 
(  Throwing  it  among  them.)    Pardon  for  rebles. 

Soldiers.  No— no.    {Shouting.)  Away  with  pardoa ! 


174  THE     BRIDE     OF     FORT     EDWAED. 

— {Tearing  the  proclamation,)     To  the  death  !    Free- 
dom for  ever  ! 


THE    END. 


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